Graceful sway of her long, elegant fingers,
The hypnotic smile of her sweet face lingers.
Her favorite songs are burned into my brain—
An addiction so strong, it drives me insane.
“That’s not very poetic,” the bird laughs.
“Truths are more often than not chaotic,” I say.

Then the bird takes a leap, and up she goes.
I chase after her, for she has given me hope.
I realize that it’s selfish, that it’s scary,
But it’s also just part of being human.

She’s an artist stuck in a spiral of despair,
The fallen angel sleeps in her lonely hair.
I pray to God, “Please let me be there.”
Even if for a fleeting moment,
Let me be what her bleeding soul requires.

The morning sun takes away my breath;
The freezing cold brings it back.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” the bird flies past me.
“If that’s what it takes to make you laugh again.”

I took refuge in her voice; the warmth kept me safe.
“A step towards nirvana,” I said.
“You don’t sound very convincing,” the bird chuckled.
I’d let you have my heart if that’s what it takes to prove my words.

The sun went down, and the moon hid herself,
But I kept chasing after the unknown bird,
Hoping to get another glimpse, to add her presence to my dreams,
Hoping someday she’ll hold me tight and never let go.

The date was April 3, 2000.
A cool zephyr blew and
I forgot every morning blue,
Right when I saw the angel,
She was so beautiful,
As if a princess, or a fairy,
I was 9 at that time.

She had come down from the hills,
From the Himachali town of Solan,
And she had just come to our school.

I looked at her, and I was dumbstruck.

Her sideways glance,
It was so fascinating,
As if a fairy came down,
From the mountains, I mean,
I can never forget her,
Neither her name,
Nor her harmonious voice.

She became the class monitor,
And I intentionally made a noise,
To get her often talking to me,
Oh I remember everything clearly,
"Atul–Keep quiet!" she'd shout,
And I'd laugh silently, but laugh anyway,
And her nostrils would flare red.

In 2001, I drowned in the infatuation,
Deeper than the Mariana Trench,
Sitting on my school bench.

In 2002, her father expired,
And she was traumatised,
Seeing her sad, I was shocked too,
And she stopped talking to us,
But she always scored well,
Yes, she did score nicely,
And I was inspired.

In 2003, I changed schools,
But in 2005, I met her again,
She gave me her number,
I often used to call her,
Not once did she,
Because she didn't have my number,
Not that her caller ID didn't show it,
But our EPABX number always varied.

In 2007, I confessed to her on a call,
I told her, "I have always loved you,"
And she scolded me without waiting,
"Atul! I never expected this from you."
She continued, "Never call me again!"
I was crestfallen, disappointed, and sad.
I'd have sung my original song had she accepted.

That song I composed for her,
Had come out of my heart.
It was a lyric of my desperation.
And a tune of my romance.
It was a hope of my loneliness.
And a promise of my love.
But she rejected my proposal.

I never called her again, out of respect.
Anyway, I credit her for making me a poet.
I credit her for making me a singer & artist.
But I still love her so deeply, and
So truly that I look for her everywhere,
In every prospective match,
In every passing batch.

These days she's in Chandigarh.