There are letters
waiting for my touch,
And you say,
if you want to write,
write with your fingers burnt and bleeding.
Write because I don't care
whether its 3 at night
or my sides hurt from remembering you
for too long,
But I'll wait for your excuse.
Its a surprise we have spent our evenings
Counting boats, but not drowning.
Its a surprise we haven't
Hated each other always.
Your body is a wreck of impure thoughts now.
And I'm worried, when I find you again
You'd be dreaming, of me.
Nilesh Mondal currently pursues a course in engineering by day, and struggles to stay awake amidst heaps of unwritten poetry every night.