Soumya Scribbles...

Bricks and mortars aside, Our separate doors And combined windows Apart, Can I talk to you tonight? Can we bring two shovels And dig through our floors, D .I ...G deep? Till we find the river We once shared between us.

We met at a rainpark. What is it anyway? We could have met in the middle of a desert, a fountain, a mountain, a monument maybe. We met and it did not rain that day. Did it matter? Seasons passed by us And beheld the same old me, but the flavour of you in six. Today, Namelessly as we scratch our names on the shores, I realize what I am thankful for. When I was building our castle from mediocrity, You stayed.

I will trade my dreams with you. The way you fly high and dive deep, the moment you catch your breath and let go of, the next. The sunsets you soak in and the nights you lie ( to yourself ). I will trade my dreams with you. The way I wait for you and wait I do. -- Soumya

It's been pragmatic for long. The cobwebs and the dusts have made their fragile colony. The first letter is always special. Sabbatical has ended after countless summers. Shaky hand holds the pen, writes and strikes. Cigarettes burn. Wasted smokes dance around dim lit lights. White papers are to poets, what love is to a tree. It secretly wishes, someday it would bend its arms and hold the one she loves. It would confess for forgotten springs. But winters come and wrinkled papers stack. Night trespasses and leaves. The dawn comes, What was the yield? A poet wrote about how poets fall.