#22. The Epistle

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When I try to write
The words don't seem to fit right
What all I could say
Those things I never say
If I could get one moment
To say , to call , that'll be enough
If you once pick up my call
Maybe that one minute would be enough
But now I am writing this letter
Thinking of all that mattered
My pen is shaking
But I know it would be worth it
I slide those meaningless yet powerful words
Along the rough sheet
The eternal ink sinks through the page
But will it remain in your heart for long enough?
All I could take of this chance
Was to steal a glance
At that pitiful letter
Before it again goes into the furnace
Bursting into little pieces of my love
Burnt smell of burned affection
The choking smoke of loneliness
And today I sit on my chair
Looking at your only photograph
Thinking of how things could have been
If I had delivered that
One letter.

(c) Ishita Singh 2016






(c) Ishita Singh 2016

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