Little Pieces of Light and Memory

Something faint and slightly spicy,
like specks of fire-hot chilli powder
burns brightly.

In the world of magic,
of smoke and oil-lamps,
Of burning coal on the skillet of a naan-waala,
the heat is felt.

His fingers, they come back
making love to the smoke and ash,
then reaching up to touch my eyes my lashes my lips.
Leaving a trail of red-hot chilli powder.
I taste it. And some of that taste
Lingers.

And comes back.
On nights like these, when
the only smoke I call my own
is from a trembling candle by the snow,
You push my fingers into the flame
And I burn.