Letters at Day’s End #2





Maitrey,
there is a sadness that stops by every night
and asks me of you,
of your sudden white smile
and your sweaty groin
that I’ve never smelled
like pages from my favourite book.

 

Some nights,
I feel a soreness underneath my ragged skin
growing under your moonlit memories.
On other days,
I feel the pulses of your neck on my tongue
throbbing faster with every second
that my daydream wanes closer to an end.

 

Yes, I daydream about you.
And yes, the world is better place there.
No, I don’t worry that I might break
each time I realise
we were never meant to be.

 

Maitrey, these poems that I write
are all politicians
with sight for only the bigger things.

 




I have never written about
my eyes that wander for yours
even amidst quiet evening streets
with lovers and dogs
and silent splatters
with every footstep.

 

I have never written about
that dream that we haven’t yet shared,
and how each night before I sleep,
I think to myself,
“Tonight is the night we meet
and never leave.
Tonight, we share the same place in our minds
where we whisper memories
that we shall remember even when we wake.”

 

I have never written about
how it shivers my tendons and spine
every time I muse about death
and how each time, the very next thing that I think of,
is you.

 


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