the curtain is flapping on the girth of the window in end-March late spring morn gust.
you’re here in my arms; am drinking the smells of yours; am finding comfort in your breath.
this is what I’m destined for to hold you in my arms forever in my memories after I woke up.
the morning is gay, the breeze being gust; untidyng my tidy room; resonating echo of once.
you’re here on my chest; you’re humming songs of Tagore; your fingers playing on my chest.
this is what I destined for to have you lock in my chest in imagination at gay morn like today.
the morning is early, still young; a calm, sereness is blended into the bidding spring wind.
you’re here looking at me, your chin on the hand resting on my chest; we both want no kiss.
this is what I destined for to see a pleasing morning turn to a melancholic one–