In the dark, stars gleaming at its best
In the silence of this room, the gentle breeze flapping the pages
The pages by the way, holds my handwriting
Some smudged, the rest somewhat faded
I wrote a few lines, yesterday
After you fell asleep listening to
my constant blabbers
After you kissed me goodnight, over the phonecall
Promising to visit me the next summer.
I wrote a few lines of us, in the jet black ink
And the ink gave me the liberty to cry in it
And so, I did while remembering you.
Each night, when the wind blows right past my room
The pages of my diary mistakes it for you
And flips themselves to the page of my poetries
To read you one among the many.
And then, I tell them, there is still time
And may be a winter in between.