to the poet who killed me
I remember the poem you wrote about me;
In which I rhymed in every line
You titled the poem "Sunshine in November"
But I suppose;
You didn't get drenched in the November rains.
Maybe your lines had me.
Or did it have me?
You held me in your lines;
Just like you held me in your hands.
Maybe it's your love that is inked.
Or is it me that is crucified?
In each line,
I could see me staring at your lips,
My fingers running through your hair,
My breath is getting kissed by yours.
I know you wanted to write this poem
To keep myself alive in you.
But little did you know
You took my last breath
In your last poem.
In which I rhymed in every line
You titled the poem "Sunshine in November"
But I suppose;
You didn't get drenched in the November rains.
Maybe your lines had me.
Or did it have me?
You held me in your lines;
Just like you held me in your hands.
Maybe it's your love that is inked.
Or is it me that is crucified?
In each line,
I could see me staring at your lips,
My fingers running through your hair,
My breath is getting kissed by yours.
I know you wanted to write this poem
To keep myself alive in you.
But little did you know
You took my last breath
In your last poem.
- Gouri
