Dedicated to the long line of Tabebuia Rosea trees along the Eastern Express Highway in Mumbai, that bloom in the Indian Spring.
Don’t sit in my head and smile at me
through faux cherry blossoms
(Yes, I know they’re called Tabebuia Rosea; must you be so unromantic?)
That the letter I wrote as a sixteen something
still sits tearing at each of the countless folds
in the coin compartment
of your purse
among loose change.
Spent as it is; and yet, of new denomination.
I watched the faux cherry blossoms fall.
I watched them drop
Tired and hopeless,
their once blushing pink now a pale white.
Like the skin of an anemic old woman
In her own memories
Bereft of the comfort of her imagination.
The tender new leaves a disappointing reminder
Of life ahead.