Kolkata, your cold touch

I never fret in your cold touch,
not even your calloused fingers
agitate me,

You're my old chum, whose secrets
I hold in my bosom, as close

as the petals of a french marigold;
secret vows huddled together, scared
of betraying their own self

You tantalize me with your morning breeze,
the marigolds wobble in unison,

You're the fingertip on a still pond
sending shivers down my spine

And I'm so lost in your loneliness
that my solitude becomes verses

At times I see you reading them,
straining your eyes and wrinkles

And the next moment you vanish
in a veil of thick mist