The Lost Ones

On your dark face smile does not spread like a butterfly. Most reticent I had been , It was very difficult to give, and very painful to take. You wanted to be noticed, and I had a tryst with uncharted path. It was coming. The separation ! Like an **** pain of cancer. The essence was, usurped by a deathly kiss of cobra. Your thoughts, body language were wrapped in a tarnished blanket. Let us start a parallel monologue on different selves. Do not count the wounds. An anthropologist has become a messenger. The history, the fossils, the caves are shouting, we were cannibals. No sound will trudge now, on our empty streets. No knocks will come on our doors. SATISH VERMA