Its NOT a poem

The sounds, the silence
The lights and the shadows
The room is alive,
The room is dead.
I stare at the ceiling, the curtains and the door.
She barges in ‘What are you celebrating? An emotional month?’
A question and an answer.
I’m glad for the interruption.
Glad and somewhat sad. Both at once.

You never called in this room.
I never sat on the bed cross legged to talk to you either.
You’re an invisible presence.
Maybe that’s why you never call.
You are already here.
You are always here.

7:10 pm
Sep 24, 2007


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