Walking back home from our date number eight I remember stalling every step adding mini seconds to minutes waving back accross the road once, twice, again for the sixth time your hazy outline dispersed into a chaos of cars and crowd as if a drop of ink in a clear bowl what remained on my handkerchief like leftovers from last night's feast stale, cold and in plenty, was a faint scent and a tiny smudge of your perfume and giggles at your touch.
© amrita