In a city of fog and summerless light,
London hums softly, but nothing feels right.
Years have withered, your name still flows
Mithila, a whisper the morning wind knows.
We never danced in moonlit embrace,
Nor traced our fingers across time or space.
But the dots were sent… three soft ellipses…
Spoke louder than touches or lover’s kisses.
I heard you, without words,...
Continue reading...