like a flower with a dry mouth.
Sepia makes you a cradle that only windows know about.
When I'm looking at you in sepia,
the innocence burns me into pieces and shrouds.
A figure that doesn't fit into crowds.
Sepia and brown are not the same.
You were green on top of green when I last saw you.
In sepia, you are ancient history.
When the boats leave the ghats during dim, mellow afternoons,
your face ripples in sepia water.
