A pilgrimage to Uttara Karnataka

I once saw you in winter,
and the thought of tree branches feathered by starlight in
poorly-lit neighborhoods swept me by.
I hear the dichotomy between the lispy trills of the nocturnal orthopterans,
and the murmurs of the hippies and halakkis.

I think of sleepy afternoons, and uncovering ancient
childhood treasures in the labyrinthine groves of bamboos.
I recollect long bicycle-rides by the countrysides of Gokarn,
in those woods where we've been shying away,
playing hide and seek, veiled by the morning mist.

I reminisce pashmina-scarves and alfresco cafés, city streets and
sunsets where we attuned to each other's sighs escape; 
I covet studio-apartment staircases where the windchill hibernates, 
the world slowing down around us by the windowsill,
where we unswervingly rewind.

I intuited your chirpy laughter ringing in my living room,
moonlight trickling through the curtains.
I perceive the warm crackling of firewood in the hearth, 
where the most honest parts of myself, are borne fetal, 
warmed upon, and welcomed.

I overheard the suitcase closing and the creaking floor, 
the cold wind conspiring about the forthcoming days.
I didn't want to; still, I gleaned it whisper to me,
that you were going away, and,
I pictured a secret lake nestled away somewhere afar, 
the sky's reflection in its embrace,
Just the way I held you within my eyes.

I once saw you in winter,
and thought of this home we raised which smells like
chocolate-chip cookies as soon as you enter, filled with boisterous
laughter of kids, surrounded by a white picket fence. 
I fret about the carpool to soccer practice, and 
the after-school arts and crafts, the
weekend piano and cello lessons. 
I recall weekend picnics by the seashore, 
with melted ice-cream all over our faces.

In the quintessence of these cold-weather thoughts,
I think of you.
It's always you.