Childhood Vices

We are back again to writing weird poetry,
Back again to mumbling the tumbling, fumbling words
And producing screechy voices over telephones
We are back again to erroenous reading
and incomplete sentences
Right back at half-right spellings
and convenient punctuations.

We are back with our mighty opinions
and the well-practised gaze
Nothing in the content of our words
but still the words sound rare
We are doing it again...cancelling plans
not returning calls
and being a cobweb on a beautiful black piano

We are walking again,
circular walking
and smiling ceaselessly at different people
met at various horizontal planes
We are drawing lines in the air
with our hand-waves
and our directions..

We are back again to diary scribbling
at half-past midnight.
Tyring to figure out the Sari
and muffled giggles spring from inside our rooms
because our heads
are stirring such humour
we thought we're most incapable of..

Some alone times like these
when I=we
are times happier and bright
and most fulfilling
And how else would childhood vices
be cherished ever again?