i didn't wait for the rain
but it still arrived
as promised
as inked and bloated by moving scenes
of people scurrying in the streets, hooded rickshaws
and uncontrolled laughter of children,
of playful clouds
with the sure breeze; it was spring after all.
i had measured
my memory of you
against dripping water --
the residue of rain
slipping off leaves; making you
an afterthought - what with the sound
that my eyes collected instead, in obvious green.
a poem grew from this grave
as the rain touched my skin.
someone told me, my words
in different poems
are just one story:
i am just the one, true;
you are too: your arrival and departure
from this song never died down
like the rain
you came back; now your formbodyface has changed
you are:
what can be measured
against all the molecules
that make me,
keep me going.
