Who knows perhaps a thousand miles away,
where the sun is yet to set,
a dark haired lady is basking the orange rays,
whilst reading a book in a roadside cafe.
Her coffee has turned cold,
just like the pinkish tip of her nose,
but she only cares to get to the end,
or perhaps the beginning- of her unfinished story.
She picks up her purse, puts on her hat,
and hurries down the marbled stairs.
In the haste, she almost runs into a person,
who little minds her unexpected intrusion.
But they parted ways… she down the street, he up the cafe.
Captured by two usually unusual sights, he sees-
an unfinished cold cup of coffee, with a red lipstick stain,
another was book, on which lingered the fragrance of the lady.
So towards the street he rushes now
in the hope to find the rightful owner.
Alas, he couldn’t find the dark haired lady,
so he soon returns to the coffee corner.
Who knows perhaps he turns around the pages of the book,
to find his own self in between the printed sheets.
He is the mighty sun, around which the story revolves.
The strength of his being,
his fragility that’s unseen,
…those strings are delicately handled.
So did the lady leave the book on purpose?
Of course she did!
She had almost been dying for her muse to read,
the book that she’s finished writing.
Will the person go in search for the dark haired lady? Or instead, the author of the book?
For even though both are one, one gave him love, the other, immortality.
(First published two years ago.)