Paint

The canvas of the sky is washed clean. Tomorrow, the daily lives of a million people subsisting in this masala city shall pollute it again, with their circular ambitions and efforts. But for this evening, the sky is virginal. Soft. Alive. After so many days, it has awoken to the sound of whispering pitter-patter on the plastic roof of my father's garage. To the smell of a smoldering moisture; to the mischievous nip in the air, which tickles and teases so.

To the frustrated, liquid longing in the eyes of a fifteen year old girl, who combs her hair repeatedly by the light of a flickering gaslight in order to look beautiful for the benefit of the rain.

To the lonely guitarist, lost in the puffs of his own lung-burning smoke; who in a roll of translucent paper shall fly to another land, shall escape corporeality.
To the sallow, burning boy, who peeks out of the window into his fair neighbour's bedroom.

A thousand dozen insecurities.

But not tonight. Tonight's for gazing up at the milky stars in quiet wonder, and thinking of poetical and philosophical matters. Tonight is for nostalgic melancholy. Tonight is for being and existing. Tonight is for sleeping with our doors open. Tonight is for watery happiness. 
Tonight is for Us.
Under the guiltless canvas of a rain-washed night, You and I shall paint of Love.

...

But the magic's slipping away now. The evening is melting. Soon we shall go back to our fading lives, our silicone, reined-in existences. And the night envelopes its own, and rests. Tomorrow's another day.

...

Everyday always comes too fast.