Wasted – Bombay, November 2001

This is our time.

A time to share and exchange,

to live and relive.

But I am already out of breath

And in between short,

sharply drawn gasps.

God.

I miss you so.

I wish I were more the tortoise

and less the hare.

“I want you, but I am petrified.

I think you feel the same.”

In my path, this is a crossing over

of one onto another on bloodied knees.

I bow down to facts.

Because life didn’t stop for you.

Because life moved on and left me behind.

But, “you can’t walk out on love…”

I write.

Write, flushing out that which

Remains untranslatable, unsharable

What I learned doesn’t show easy.

Look at these hands.

Look for the lines.

Then look at me. You will find them

There.

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