Nescafe Nights

There's something called Nescafe Nights, Written upon midnight kitchen counters, As I sway to your voice, On a phone whose connection Is keen on abruption. During these Coffee wafted midnights, Conversations are suspended from knowledge, Who knows? Who cares? Who sees? Do you? Consumed by the stretched sheet of time, Isn't there something about you and I that almost makes this longing a syndrome? I try to ask, nonchalantly. There's something What could be the adjective? Endearing about these Nescafe Nights, Feeling of your favourite poetry collection, Your first paperback poetry collection, against your skin, when the first poem, sinks, seeps, simmers you in, And how I luxuriate, and then Dissolve within this Nostalgia that's dispersed over space and constellations, waiting to be mourned and mooned over. There's something about a caffeine stained room That lingers and follows With every lane, every day, every thought. Within the scoops of swirled up ice-cream There's something about this swirled up ice-cream on my tongue, within a dimmed, always sunset room that reminds me of Midnights, Curled upon my tongue, Melting, overflowing, A scented, marked kiss of "Wish I was there" Maybe, It's the version of reality, that I've loved for the first time without any caution of moment, and Maybe, it is the first of firsts where words flow carelessly where meanings mesh with others, Maybe just Maybe this is how simply heartbeat feels a simple skip of happiness, a simple leap of passion, sometimes a symbol within pages, sometimes damasked with metaphors, but always a stained, kitsch-like memory.