A Ride Home
Trudging along a lonely road with few and far between streetlights.
The rain is beating down resolutely on the tiny rickshaw in great, big sleets.

With you, I want every month to be monsoon.
We're high up. Here, the rain dances a different kind of dance.

There's a sense of isolation on this road and an enveloping dark. It is this black that I want to share with you.
After all those sterile corridors, the dirt seems almost welcoming.
Water rises, mists and swirls in the dull ochre of headlights.
Nature shows, in her gentle, persuasive way that there are certain veils that the brightest of lights cannot pierce.

We stumble along blindly, looking at the scattered glitter of lights in the distance. They seem like so many, sparkling beacons.

The city beckons. And I look away.
But suddenly, without a preamble, civilisation bursts on us in all its explosive glory.
The road is now a rainbow of the colours of the night.
The forest has receded, the mountain has grown smaller. The lonely road is a faraway dream.
And I? I resent the intrusion of presumptuous horns and screeching wheels.

I'm better off in the unpredictable dark.
Dark that sings of familiarity and reeks of the space between your arms.