The night walks on. Footsteps on a moist ground.
Small girly feet. Painted toenails. Black like the sky.
The wind carries it away.
And then she is gone, like her smell.
The night evaporates. But there is still time.
The light is yet to write on us.
The circus is sleeping. The men and women dream.
Their lips move for imaginary conversations.
Their tongues take in others for forbidden kisses.
Their fingers reach out for love.
Blankets are worn since the darkness isn’t enough.
The show will go on tomorrow. They must now take rest.
Sagnik Datta was working as a software developer in Hyderabad, India, but has now left his job to pursue his writing interests. His works have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Right Hand Pointing, Ranar and Uttarbanga Sambad.