I Want to Worry

I want to worry.

I want to worry about the five minute-late call that would happen in ten more minutes, exactly.

I want to worry about the big black bag weighing you down when you walk towards your closest friends.

I want to worry about the red peels off the metallic paint of your soon-to-be-ugly-pink Manchester lighter.

I want to worry about the saltiness of your lost-match sweat 'ruining' my purple kurti.

I want to worry about the man  at the corner table violating our quiet-breath moment with his careless gaze.

I want to worry about the Phuchka-kaku refusing to give us an extra 'Phau'.

I want to worry about the skinny puppy not returning your bright-eyed love.

I want to worry about Mishti-Paan-Man not getting our green-roll just-right.

I want to worry about that extra tea-spoon of vanilla essence I might have slipped into your February-cake dough.
I want to worry about not finding enough small coins in your pockets when our Laathi-dida comes around, smiling.
I want to worry about you finishing off the munchies from your secret-stash before we are rich-again.

I want to worry about stupid things.

I want to worry about useless,happy things.

I want to worry. I don't want to worry
about never seeing your face

light up again -