Reality?

Reality?

The scent of the dusty roads
exhaling the monsoon.
The sight of tittering
Tanned, wet bodies
against the succulent green.
Hot, yet sticky
Spicy, yet sour

Why is it?
That over here
amidst the silent-weeping
he strides rhythmically?

Does he not
feel the burden
of the drops upon his balding head,
taste the unjust fumes
of the imported engines?

Halt.
Silence
the sound of water against the tin roof
broken by the touch
of tiny fingers on the wet window
smiling warm gaze,
pouting sugar lips,
a gap between her teeth
marketing her merchandise.

Pacing,
he catches his reflection in a puddle.
The world hovering above him,
the road beneath.

He glances up,
a rain drop escapes it’s fate
landing on his lip,
he rescues it with his tongue.

Glancing back at the puddle,
mesmerized he captures his youth,
only for it to be shattered
into a million ripples.

Hot, yet sticky.
Spicy, yet sour.