Some nine years back my knee shed some blood outside your window.
This was when the teenager had just realised how the world seemed a better place when the two wheels of her cycle moved so fast that one couldn’t figure out the spokes in it.
Don’t think you saw it though. I wouldn’t really know because I didn’t look up.
I don’t think you watched me walk down the road that your window opens out to, as I ran to school-always a few minutes late and came back from school, always with ink stains on my shirt.
The day I left this space you and I happen to co-habit, my taxi stopped below your window and I rolled down my glass.
Probably to take of this place all I could in one blink, or probably to let my fingers comb through this air you and I have breathed all our lives.
But not to look up, for sure.
Years later, my knee still has its nine year old scar.
We have become rectangles of yellow light we see going off and on, before the lights are put to sleep.