Crayons

It's raining.
Like it does around this time of season.
Cold wind, fragrance of the soil and all those cliches.
Like a favourite movie watched over and over again.

I have got a box full of crayons.
Tonight for a change, I'll put my pen down and hold crayons instead.
How do you want me to paint the rain for you?

Blue, if it rains melancholic monsoon memories for you?
If raindrops taste salty to you...
The blue of the paths crossed years ago, of the roads walked alone in the torrential rains...

Yellow, if it turns you into a child?
The gold of the memories of surprise school holidays, the mud splashed on your best friends' raincoats, of Sonmohor that stained the wet roads gold...

Red, if it burns you with passion?
The red of the blush on your cheeks when holding an umbrella for someone and the trembling lips that you kissed in a drizzle...

Green, if you are a cheerful poet?
The green of the freshly bathed leaves and of the moss that grows on the walls of your childhood home, hell-bent on living...

Tell me and I shall paint it the way you want.
Maybe tomorrow you won't type-caste all my writing.
Maybe tomorrow you won't call it depressing.