Posted by: Ron DuBour | September 28, 2018





I sit in the same corner seat every Sunday
By the French window,
Of the quiant little coffee shop
At the bend of the road.
I viewed vistas in colours then,
They have moulted into black and white now.
Its not easy to erase the name
Etched so firmly on the heart.

I watch scorching summers pass by,
I sigh as romantic monsoons
Frivolously touch the parched earth,
With magical silver drops,
Wishing they were your caresses
Soothing my feverish skin;
Rusted gold autumns floating by
On carefree cottony clouds
Remind me of our fairy tale romance.
Winters refuse to say goodbye somehow
As my tears lie frozen on my lashes
Not willing to touch my thirsty cheeks.

Your memories keep crashing like waves
Against jagged edges of my mind
Hurting and drowning me.
The familiar road scenes –
The hawker dotted pavements,
Children playing hopscotch,
Lovers stealing kisses behind cars
Are an eyesore now.
The familiar sounds – blaring of car horns,
The chatter of gaily dressed women,
The shrill call of vendors selling knickknacks
Once welcome, seem jarring to the mind now.

I keep tasting your kisses on my lips
And savour your name on my tongue
Over and over again.
I am surprised at my own patience
To catch a glimpse of you,
Perhaps persuade you to sit and sip coffee
With me like the good old days,
Holding hands and hugging
You teasing me as usual,
Laughing over silly things,
The wait is never really over…

Piya Ghosh~ 28-9-18

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