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Pickles in balcony

The house I lived in,
the hallway I crossed often,
would remind of,
of schools on vacation.
Facing south,
it was the perfect spot.
On bright blue sunny
afternoons,
My mother would let dry,
pickles in balcony.
Sweet mainly sour,
it would get duller
every hour.
She would call for me
and ask for strings,
to hang over a plastic.
My room being in North,
I got her iron bars
not jute strings.
Strings not bars,
Strings not bars.
I repeated, my way back,
back to my room,
back to no bright skies
& pungent odour,
just thick lonely air.
I would look over ,
the thick concrete walls,
hoping they would disappear,
in thin crisp air.
I would hear you whisper,
I would talk to you
in my thoughts,
I would wonder,
how the shadows that
lingered upon you,
had laced our future now.
I would wonder,
what colour we could
have painted our walls,
& would quickly realise,
Not just blood,
loneliness we shared too.
I wish you stayed,
I wish you thought highly
of hope.
Your shadow wasn’t blocking
my sight no more.
I guess,
we went had lunch next.
With half dried pickles,
for tongue’s a slippery thing.
I’m back home,
for where can I go?
And I wait,
I wait for you to pull the
strings on my walls,
I know, I know.
It won’t ever happen,
Hence,
I wait for you to pull the
strings off my walls.

I am just a regular person,I write poems, I have posted here thrice, and I am very thankful for this platform. If you like the poem you can visit my site,
https://wordpress.com/view/ants908757855.wordpress.com

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