Sunday, May 7, 2017


You are always going away
Somewhere, inhabiting a life
I know so little of,
And I am always retreating a little 
into myself.
I could say a number of things
For instance, I have often wondered 
how it would be like to kiss you,
but there is so much at stake.
We are always surrounded by friends,
a precaution you have made a point to take
at a place like ours;
small-town stifling atmosphere
where people talk
and anything can be a fodder for scandals.
I long for you even as I sit next 
to you in the car,
the air tense with our mutual desire;
I wonder if other people can sense it too.
Some days you give me hints,
But for all your years, you seem
As bewildered and confused
On where we stand.
By now it has grown into a fever,
consuming me like cancer,
By now you send me notes,
all along your travels,
probably missing me a little.

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