at the bus stop clouds tell me frank drops of rain

then from the bus, i see them gossip with the puddles

they mothered, about the neon sores the city will discharge

into them at night— lovebites of halogen lights.

the world turned on disappearing messages

ever since you were born. our lives are set

to view once— some will think you're worth

sneaking a screenshot of, others will let you

drift digitally on the cloud, no, not the one

that told me a rain at the beginning of this poem

but the one this poem will be uploaded to

at the end of this day of beginnings.

p.s. if you want a screenshot of me

go make a nest on your shoulder—

i will lean there and call it home.

~ ajay

18/5/2022