Homi Framroze


The telephone rang
Slicing clean the silence of the day
Lancing icy layers of exclusion
Of months and years and ages
Of exile from her armpits
her breasts and bed
But most of all her heart

Louder still and the tumult rose inside him
temples throbbed at the summons of the call
Words grated in the throat and
he could barely say
I have always loved you always always always

Sorry wrong number a disembodied voice replied.
Then silence claimed the blackness of the night



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