This summer season

This summer season
you reach
to catch a woman.
She’s moth.
You’re night.

And she’s safe for three months,
till winter
makes you blink.

While you wait for
season’s change to
clear your mind and make
the mask redundant,
you fill spare moments
with busywork,
stitching
new words
onto fresh embellishments
running around the collar,
sleeves and hem
of your kurta,
that invisible one
you imply you disdain to wear
most times,
even in May.

Counting on its faint silken scrim
to almost-hide
your brilliance and fire,
wielding skills like
intermittent broken
syntax,
pirate-like
you swarm the yards,
disarming the enemy.

You’re masterly at doing things like
signifying
there will be some corrections required,
something most women can’t resist.

But there won’t,
for you were never that graceless.
You only play at that game.

I could never not ask a question,
you write now,
and not to me.

Here’s mine,
some few things your silence
begs me not to say:

Why did you touch me,
if you knew
who I was
and you knew you?

Or,
why did you touch me,
if you didn’t know
who I was?