The one I love is not you.
If, in a fit of pique, you ask me
'Then who am I?'
I shall say: you are that one
who, in the first flush of youth
Remained obscure; unvalued;
You are that one, who, time and again
Has taught me how to love.*
I was thinking of a time when I wanted things to stop. The thought of turning 'stale and moldy' was acceptable, even welcome. The time when routine mails were akin to poetry. And emails were sent despite the time together.
Yes, I went back to that tiny room on the first floor. Where time was just a beautiful verse.
* translation of an unknown Bangla poem.
