You pick me up from crowd and put me on A tree of memories haunted by you. I wriggle like a tiny squirrel on Its branches. Familiar faces, places too, Appear like apparitions becoming Solid wood (adding a layer each year - four To be precise) and leaves as well - quivering. You disappear into thin air. But for The heck of it, I ignore your absence. I hobble too far. A … [Read more...]
Rahul Singh writes on Indian Review.