Distances makes hearts grow fonder
1397 kms across rivers, roads and melting sands
I've sometimes heard you sob
silently in the death of the night
wishing that these 1397 kms
didn't eat your voice.Rain is ripping apart the womb
of her mother,
here loneliness lies prostrate in my belly
like a dead child.
Words I am trying to memorize
when sleep refuses to stalk me
like a sick smitten lover.
You may have traded headaches with me
when you complain of them
I laugh it off
saying aspirin is paying me
for being migraine's favourite child.
Some song coos into my ear
taking me back to the sea
that strolled with us
on a strange September evening.
1397 kms. The yardstick of longing.
Only if distances made hearts grow fonder.