There Were So Many Letters I Meant to Send You
In this broken, rain-swept evening sky—
To that mirage-touched postbox on High Street.
You crossed my mind that night of the waning moon, in a fevered haze,
As Shakespeare’s verses stirred within me.

Lily,
Did you come?
In my fevered vision, beside Shakespeare himself?
Last monsoon, you wrote in a slip of paper—
That you no longer walk in the rain,
So melancholic!

Today, the whole suburb bathes in rain's delight,
Yet you are absent in the void of this shattered monsoon,
Where, in the hushed verses of John Keats,
A prayer hides—
Calling you forth in this rainy twilight of sky.

And yet, I’ve stopped short of writing to you so many times.
Still—
There were so many letters I meant to send you.
Your sorrow, folded and kept in my breast pocket,
Still clings to the parchment of my poetry—
And it is your name… always your name