This life is not enough.
What’s left of it? Another 50 years?
I don’t believe in afterlife,
A place beyond this, amidst the clouds,
nah! I don’t buy that.
I wish I’d have known you earlier.
maybe not held hands
but I wish I would have always seen you
through the corner of my eye
existing with me
playing, falling and giggling while riding a small bicycle.
Maybe some day we would see each other
exchange a pretentious “hi!”
neve to again talk
but I wish I’d seen you earlier.
Another 50 years!
Do we get more lives?
I hope we do,
for 50 years is too less,
to spend with you.
I promise to find you earlier,
in all the lives to follow,
But what if you get two and I get three?
In the third,
maybe I’ll keep writing
about a silhouette of my imagination.
My friends will grow up with me,
find a man or a women to settle down
and I’ll look through the window,
while sipping coffee on a slow Saturday,
Sitting on the porch of my 1bhk,
thinking about someone like you.
Maybe I’ll grow old to be a writer,
who knows about love without ever loving a man,
who waits and waits and waits,
because she wants to keep a promise.
In my third life,
I might not find you,
But there’s no one else I’d ever be looking for.
THE INKPOT 