I laugh at my own ardour
even as I glance sideways--
at nothing--
for you.
Tunes flit and interrupt
even as reason and hope banter
and merge.
Closed stranger-faces
opening up with chances of you
appear and disappear like dream-thought...
A jerk in the stomach
A sizzling of frazzled nerves
And I laugh at me,
and at bad love poetry
(at 2 a.m.)
and at you, who
do not exist.
2 comments:
wow...as always :)
Ah but he does, he does! He awaits for you just beyond the doors of sleep,in the teasing voices of the confidants, in prospective walks on the beach...
Nee avane lowe panriya? :P
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