Not a poem for a week. Not a story for a week. Not an essay for a week.
I had said myself. I had promised myself. I had been saying to myself.
The moment that I’m the owner of now pushed me, pressed me to write.
The Sunday evening is not calm and composed ’cause being the first of the month.
The lovers walking hand in hand; the married or engaged ones cuddling while walking.
This is how this summer evening is decorated. My neighborhood, vicinity —
To South Kolkata’s hot spots few, decorated. Crowd, you think, not actually it is.
My southern window and its curtains playing with each other exposing the half moon
On the sky; a halo of rainbow form surrounding it; stars flickering, near to it.
The feeling that I am going through what can be it call? The state my mind is in what’s it?
I’m alone. I’m lonely. I can use an array of verbs, an array of adjectives to define this now
But, how can I because am not in the mood to write. So, I’ll stop now. Period.