Whosoever had coined that word…
Must have had your-like for his love.
He must have dragged millions of seconds
Under the reluctant eyelids
Desperately hoping for a dawn.
Those swelled up pomegranate seeds,
Your “Alta”ed toes, got their hue
From the many that committed suicide at your feet.
Look tomorrow when you shake
Leaning over your balcony railing
That cascade of tresses.
How many hearts dried up there would drop down dead!
Should only a mirror be blessed
To see your countenance… heartfully,
Only a mascara to kiss your eyelids passionately,
And if it is the good fortune of the lipstick
To kiss your lips enviably,
Then it must be true what the other man had said:
Your heart is inanimate.
But strangely, anything you lay hands on, or step over,
Becomes a monument, a treasure for host of admirers.
Just for your look,
A gentle word from you,
A small conversation with you,
They are ready to trade their cherished lifetime achievements

Your presence inflicts pain, your absence drills.
Memories rain on my loneliness to scald me.
How many resilient beds of waiting hours
I had laid up in your way
That you may walk unhurt!
When you can’t cure, my saviour,
Why not you withdraw this life support system
That I may die… hopefully?


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