It is an odd time of an April in Shimla, a Monday night
As the sweltering heat rises, she misses the cold
Her bedside lamp gleams bathes her in a hint of red
Her eyes reflect the desire of being held close
The wind blew gently through the window
Fluttering Simi's journal, pointing as if to remind
There are poetries of her in it, where she was the muse
She has often skipped reading them, for fear of love
She turns to see the racket the pages make
As the butterfly neck piece digs ever so slightly into her left chest
She remembers a time of passionate love making
Where she was the fire of unbridled passion
The time has passed, or so she thinks
Yet a distant soul chooses to think otherwise
As she reads out her poem, of what the worth of a woman is
She finds me melting into her words and voice
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