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Ok, I admit; I still have that shameful longingness.
When you gathered everything else up and left me to myself,

And, when the war of words ended,

It was clear that the love between us had begun to show cracks.
It would never happen to me, was the conviction I always had.

But, I was ushered into the habitat of the estranged ones.

I have been shown forms of love by a million strangers.
But, I don’t feel the tenderness of that.

Your love that is toughest to get is the one that’s greater and superior.

Many times, I wonder if you might still think of me,
And that lets a tear drop at the crow’s feet.

I stop the breath and let all the tears pass as they are in a hurry to run through.

I am different now, I am a whole lot better, come see what I have to offer.
I even run all my new thoughts by you in my head,

To prove that they are every bit rational.

When others ask how well you are doing,
The hidden shame that there is not just six degrees of separation between us,

Makes me display nuggets of overheard conversations about your life.

The faintest murmurs of our memories crawl into my heart,
Like these words on paper.

A word or two from you will most certainly drown me in the monsoon of joy.

Sometimes, those raging regrets I have bring about an edifying atonement.
Only the dead or the unborn are forgiven. Isn’t it true?

And if I jump, you will find our favorite snapshots in my pocket.

– 0 –

Poetry