This is fiction.
The storm drains of Colombo are full of love affairs, abortions, wedding rings, blood and tears. Beneath the veneer of civilization is the beating heart of lust. My heart, indeed, poor pilgrim, is taking a beating of its own. I wish for an arranged marriage. I wish for order in this world.
Scandal and intrigue pierce the space between our bodies. The stories, the innuendo, the rumors. Like radiation, those cell phone conversations, discreet text messages, they fill the airwaves, whispering. When the whispering voices become confession, the heart reels.
I sit humbled in my own body, weighed heavily by the moment. I feel a dreadful itch, to scratch away the time. Oh the tempests a heart makes, the teacups it overturns. They spill into the Colombo sewers, lost children and dreams.