Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Soaked Thoughts



Poetry was the language we conversed in 
Neruda jostled with Plath and Tagore 
Debates I secretly enjoyed
And frosty nights were imbued with 
The warmth of conversations and hot chocolate 
Goodbyes were never said 
All that was left was silence 
As steely as the ripping of pages
From a much cherished book 
Today I stand drenched in rain 
Waiting for a bus that would probably never come 
Drenched to the bone, chilled to my soul 
How much longer, I wonder 
Before I give up and go back home... 

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