Come with me, you had said.

Come. Love. Live.

I’m not the ordinary,

the same, the mundane.

I’m a poet, a writer, a lover.

I’ll teach you what love is,

I’ll shower you in prose,

make you my muse.

What happened to that?

I ask you, what happened to that?

Come with me, I had said.

Come. Love. Live.

And I am not ordinary,

no one is! Not you, or me,

or the man in the rat race.

We are all unique, and maybe,

all the same. Looking for love.

Looking for life. And I still plan

on teaching you, what love is.

Showering you, in prose, and love,

Making you the subject,

And object of my work.


One poem!

One poem, in the whole wide year.

That’s what you gave me.

One poem. Far from a shower.

And you don’t need to teach me

What love is. I know what love is.

Show me. Show me instead.

Come with me, you had said.

I’m not the ordinary, you had said.

Well this is ordinary.

This is how it always uncoils.

Life opens up its fangs,

And bites us, incapacitates us.


Hmm. One poem.

You are right you know. One poem.

That’s what I’ve given you.

It’s been an year since we

Were separated. That was when

I had written that poem. Sitting

In the train, lost in my world,

And your thoughts. That’s when I

Had written that. And this.

Not in a train, but a cab.

Lost in my world, however. And you.

I don’t know if this mends things.

This is not about mending things.

This is about you. Showering you

In prose, and love. Showing you

What love is. Telling you that life might

Open its fangs, but I will grab those fangs,

And break them. Before it incapacitates us.

See.. I am not the mundane, the ordinary.

I am a poet, a writer, a lover.

And how’s this for muse?!