Sharon Joseph Pulikottil

Last night, I walked the melancholy streets of New York.

With earplugs in.

And listened to the traffic sounds of India.

The lorries honking, trolley bells ringing, and people yelling prices of raw fruits in foreign languages

that should be my own.

I tried to smell the frying plantains, but all I got was weed.

I’m second-hand smoking with butterflies instead of cigarettes.

Once, a girl danced barefoot in the sand, and I couldn’t tell where she ended, and the ocean began.

I used to ache for a love story.

‘Till a poet died. And the same day, a careless flame bruised a kiss on my arm.

I do not believe in signs.

But I will fall in love with dead poets and believe it is true.

Once, a boy asked me which way was home, and I pointed down.

Every part of me belongs to the ground. Nothing is mine.

Not even my body, I mean this body.

I imagine milk-swollen breasts.

Enter me and suck away this milk.

Take what I have to offer. You will one day give, too.

If (when) I get lost in a matrix,

I will find a lonely (lovely) corner and call it my home.

I will call it mine.

Sometimes, strings are tied so tight they are no longer separate but a new whole.

So, I keep attaching

Pieces. Of. Me. To.

You, and you, and you

So, you can pull,

and pull, and pull.

They say I’m too attached. Addicted.

Yes, I am high on whatever fumes the computer gives off when it overheats.

Last night, I saw a homeless man with a cardboard sign that read “God is Above.”

So, I climbed the first flight of stairs I saw and ended up on a roof so grimy with bird shit and beer cans that

I started laughing at the predictability of this city.

The people looked up at me like I was mad.

And they were right, so I laughed louder.

Until people looked up at me like I was God.

And they were wrong, so I laughed even louder.

Last night, standing on that roof somewhere in New York,

I laughed so much I cried neon pink.

And I let the tears light the way home.

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