That Singh,
with a grey beard and moustache
carries a grey that follows him
like a quiet mist
Not the grey of sorrow
but of ash that never cooled
from fires no one saw
and of silent storms he endured
He gives himself away
whilst tiptoeing on already worn-out feet
as grey settles on him
he folds into molds never his own
His eyes reveal what his shoulders conceal
a tired child who's adamant about being strong
a boy still wearing a torn cape
a man isolated by his choice
His arms are strong
veiny and hard
arms that carry many lives
except his lover
How quietly the grey Singh breaks my heart
he fears the hands that gently reach for him
he moves awkwardly, shoulders drawing in
every embrace finds him stepping back
as though love requires blood
That Singh
that grey Singh
tugs my soul
grey seems to love him so
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