There lacks continuity, no grit in me but say, the day you looked at me looking away before a winter sun; the only decadence lay in the dwindling twilight. Mist and leafless trees an expiring flame and a companion , a fit too dear for a broken heart., a clock too tired to test its might against numerous alarms put to snooze. You are real strange, earthly as the moss suffusing the area of the clay, adamant to annex the sod yet greeting with denials to pay the price of a pervading root. The words could never flow nor shoot its aim. Yours has been a strange game, a game neither of gambles nor of cards. but one that chars the theories of probability, that alone sets contrition loose. The verses could never flow, your failing dam was the nail I gave up on before hooking the frame. So try me another time dear love, for I won't stay here long. But the affection that imperils you to frailty is a blame that musn't be my song. Your being chill is no comfortable dry day , but dodging commitment was never my way to mar your hours of belonging, a touch never made or say a wish evaded on purpose to keep whims at bay. For days will morph into speeding months, but let me seek respite , once if I may.
- ayanchakraborty250