Where art thou?

Where art thou, my beloved?

I miss the ardor with which

you sank into me;

miss your contours filling me,

and the invigorating smell of your Darjeeling.

But more than anything else,

I miss the calm,

and a certain tranquil that composed you.

 

Where art thou, dearest?

Your books  call out to you,

cheerlessly.

Pray, why do you dust them,

when you don’t intend to hold them in your arms?

Come baby, sink into me,

pause a while.

 

Get off the ugly notebook,

please.

Come into my arms,

and I’ll tell you a story.

Your virtual life is boring and bland,

let me take you to another fantasy land.

 

Oh where art thou?

 

(There were days I spent endless time on that rattan easy chair and read into oblivion. I seemed to have lost touch with so many things that really made me happy, the small little pleasures of life. Time to wake up and deeply smell my Darjeeling)