8.45 a.m., new hair

look around, its the world

a red scarf, you say

"dont buy me things"

poetry is not something

i am good at.

you want to go to lunch with him

i want to hold your hand

and smell yellowed, moth-eaten books

in old curiosity shops

9 a.m., your hair looks nice.

you are like the night's sky...

imagery is overrated

may i tell you that i

perhaps am in love with you

do i dare to ?

for every step i take towards you

you remain standing, motionless

you do not come any closer

winter becomes more cruel

warming hands at a roadside fire

is not the same as warming hands

inside your skin.

you dont have everything that you want

but then i dont have you

so life trails on peeking into

the by-lanes of a this city.

10 a.m., you move closer to me

because you are cold

i move closer you to you

because it is you

my heart slips down my sleeve.