Resan

HOLDING HANDS

I remember
somewhere along the road
between Bombay and Goa
when the full moon was actually
hanging as if from a thin thread
outside the broken bus window

Bumpy road
at midnight
hot air sweeping through and around us
competing
with the blasting bombastic Bollywood music
for our attention
my head tentatively tilting towards him
as I'm leaning against his shoulder

I remember
his ragged dreadlocks, dirty jeans, and
my unwashed, tousled, long hair
and my ridiculously loose-fitting sari,
which was red with golden threads

I remember you, Noah
And holding my hand


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