encryption

that every heart is an encrypted

whatsapp message, the

contents of which one

must seek the sender's approval to decipher –

is a notion that recurs

on lonesome nights.

what the sun does to the morning

glories, preening open their closed

petals, releasing secrets known only

to bees – are wafts I strain for on

my way to work each morning.

– and opening the petals of her being,

lips' lush, closed flower; inhaling

her secret fragrances, her ego's

concoctions – is the task I pin on

my 'to-do' list; a troubleshooting

of love's troubled machinery before

its happy problem is decrypted

by mona lisa herself.