Balcony

My mind and I, often sit cross-legged at dusk in my balcony.

Streamers of smoke gracefully sail up from my forsaken cup of tea.

I try and jam with her sometimes, with a jar of half-baked thoughts.

She bites. I nibble. We gather the crumbs. "Now let's see what we've got."

We create together. Sometimes even with ink and paper.
I feel her hand-writing is clearer than mine.

Scribble. Scratch. Crumble.
Scribble. Scratch. Crumble.
If only, one could afford wine.

We throw away most of what we write together.
Into the arms of the universe.

Then sit back for a few moments more.
To eavesdrop on each other’s sounds of silence.

We mostly keep it down.
Don’t exchange much.
Don’t let our eyes talk too loudly.

But often get a feeling.
Suspicious that.
Someone out there has been listening.