It’s wintry and sunlit.
Maybe there will be other times to worry
This isn’t it.
The couch seemed lonely without you
And so did your books
As you flitted from task to task
Without time for even a wistful look
Outside the window.
Your days were filled with hasty lines
At the coffee machine, and slammed doors
You longed for empty afternoons when you sat near the window on the tenth floor
You longed for days when you’d think of mountains and
Your eyes would mist over-
Maybe some days when you’d write about the mountains
Like old lovers.
Days when you’d write about the pretty rays of sunshine
And not shield your eyes against them.
Days when you’d feel the spines
Of old books, and think about every chapter.
Now you’re here.
Every moment seems like a crucial one
Like scenes in slow motion.
Laziness takes over you, wave by wave
Like the gentle, slumbering ocean.
That finger you used as a trusty bookmark
And you’re fast asleep.
After all, books can’t ask for promises to keep.
Written by Vasudha Rajkumar