Wist

Whatever happened to the guy, who defined him-self as Pi. Irrational & Infinite.

Haven't flipped through those timeless definitions in a long time. Haven't rested to shed this cyclic chronic fatigue. Haven't meandered back and forth in a flea market. Or fiddled for loose change in a clumsy wallet. Put on capris, and chosen steamed momos very particularly over fried ones. And reminded the waiter twice, as if a plateful of the latter was pure terror.

Haven't kept track of who owed who, how much money. Haven't dyed finger-nails in crushed petals. Nor shopped for worthless trinkets. Toe-rings and anklets. Which would be lost on the way back home. Of cycling through tortuous roads, and then hands-free when one touched the highway, giggling into an endless horizon.

Haven't been infinite. For a long time now.

Haven't figured, in my imagination, the longish awe on his maid's face, when she found a strand of my hair lying on his pillow and asked. Was there a girl here, last night.

Haven't lined my sleep-less eyes with kohl, suddenly in the middle of the night, for no reason at all, tousled my hair and took crazy pictures. And saved them in forgotten folders. Pictures, never to be looked at again. Pictures, found again, accidentally, on another tireless night, years later. And stared at.

The smoothness of that skin, the fancy in those eyes, envied.