Forty years ago <br />She wrote me a note <br />Insubstantial <br />But ending preciously… <br /> <br />‘only yours’ <br /> <br />In fountain ink <br />On a scrap paper <br />Written surreptitiously <br />But passionately <br />On a break period <br />Delivered through a common friend <br />And there wasn’t enough privacy <br />So it seemed <br />To read it alone <br />And not enough strength <br />To unfold that first call <br />Till the eyes <br />In youth’s first thirst <br />Spread it <br />In the stolen reflection <br />Of streetlight <br />In trembling hands <br />Barest words <br />Yet infinitely precious… <br /> <br />‘only yours’ <br /> <br />She couldn’t be <br />For she was <br />Destined to be someone else’s <br />And leave me nothing <br />But her everything <br />In those two words <br />Time couldn’t stale… <br /> <br />‘only yours’ <br /> <br />She <br />Possibly now a grandma <br />With everything <br />For she left me nothing <br />But two innocuous words <br />Barest infinite <br />Her everything <br />Mine too… <br /> <br />‘only yours’.<br /><br />Pradip Chattopadhyay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/only-yours-5/
