The Thief Who Stole My Poems Away

She came in one Sunday  morning.
I was expecting a visitor; she walked in –
her heels tapping the floor.
She took off her leather coat,
hung it on the hook behind the door,
asked for a glass of cold water,
and I poured her some more.

She sat on the wooden chair
that lies beside my wooden cot,
lit a cigarette with half-closed eyes,
took a puff or tw0 –
every kiss reducing its size.
I cleared my throat to speak –
a fool pretending to be wise.

We talked about weather and politics,
and about religion and God.
All this while my eyes would turn away
whenever they met hers – in awe.
She talked in gestures – her arms would sway,
and I listened like an eager spy;
and the morning turned into day.

She said she had to leave,
and saying that, she left,
and I closed the wooden door behind;
coming back I saw my stack of poems gone.
she took it along with my heart, soul, and mind.
Though she had left me with her coat,
I had never seen a thief of her kind.

And now I sit in my room, hoping she would come to steal again;
I wear her coat and write poems for her, like monsoon’s rain.


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