Hey, it has been ages since our last meeting
So long ago that I can’t remember where we met first
Was it next to Flora fountain buying poetry books?
Or was it at the David Sassoon reading room?
I distinctly remember us bumping our books
You had a collection of Elliot, I had Blok
Where we broke into a conversation abruptly
Of how Russian doesn’t translate too well into English
I remember you looking at my hand to remark
That I was holding your fingers clasped on the open book
I forgot to tell you why, and profusely apologised
You felt so much like a book of poetries unwritten
I have scribbled every other day, often in an outburst
You asked me to live in the moment, feel each word
I forgot to mention, it was my unspoken conversation
Disguised as verses tucked away, letting it be my burden
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