Don’t smile looking at me, the weak tired heart says.
Don’t talk to me while untangling your hair, the lorn soul murmured.
Don’t walk beside me, the scared another me shouted silently.
The longing to talk to her is more than the need—
Of thoughts for a poem,
But we talk like pigeons feasting on a roti–
Little bit and not more.
Past holds me back; future shut it up and,–
Present smile only, whispering let them talk.