Is this how a poem dies?
Does it occur with closed fists, belly full of thousands of
Dead butterflies never seeing air,
Your name bottled up while I swim down the rivers of my tears
And my mouth becomes but yelps from a mad dog
Aching for a more loyal companion?
I wished it every day through
Misguided attempts, romantic fails,
Through canyons of longing
And hurdles of neon lights and
Hospital dazed vision boards
to reach you.
I dreamt of our meeting just as I have dreamt
Of our parting, eyes staring blankly into the abyss of others who kiss
But do not pierce my soul.
You were everything but indifferent.
All I have now is a film reel full of confusion, friends who cannot
Decipher my sadness, reality striking down as a gavel with the innocent verdict thrown out the window.
Is this how a poem ends,
Always hardly before it arrives?
Just like us
Exacty like you and I.
We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell-
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.
Thank you for sharing Tagore.
It helped comfort me❤