Glass Canvas

My city of stars is painted in a glass canvas. It has tungsten yellow light scattered with blood red glitter and snow white dust.

This city of stars that I have fallen in love with, is blanketed by a cloud of smog and in every alley is a trail of dust that I have left untouched.

Behind pale green shutters, two hearts beat soundly and their stomach grumbles louder than their thoughts.

From hot, boiling oil, rise puffy doughnuts alongside the huffs let out by a woman who has as many wrinkles as my age.

Along the streets, my Gods are all carved in stones by hands I have never seen and are covered by the flowers that my mum grows.

The roads that my father held my hand and walked me through when I was 4 are now just streets that I brace through with hands deep in my pockets.

The heart of my city of stars has corners filled with tea shops run by hands: some covered in wrinkles and folds and some smooth like butter churned a day before.

My city of stars is linked by bridges that are broken a little beyond repair and yet tied together by the frayed edges.

Colors of spring and summer and winter are sewn into cloth pieces that my Maa loves and longs to wear every now and then.

On days with clear blue skies, here, kites act as clouds and the birds sing to them in all of our favorite songs.

Tiny purple flowers glow in our trees and wide green leaves glisten a little on sunny days and their trunks are wrapped in the brightest neon lights you can imagine.

The footpath is medicine to my sore eyes- my favorite greens, yellows, and oranges lie flat on top of blue plastics that are weighed down by rents, and fees, and bigger dreams.

All houses put together like Lego blocks smell of fish curry that Baa loved and probably that is why I want to call them homes.

The headlights and taillights all get dimmer as the nights takes over and yet my city of stars shines on the glass canvas.