Wondering if it was still worth,
those coffees and bridges over rain
Breathless moons, silly limericks
Sudden urge to hold on and not
to ever let go of he, who
melted all too soon into the crowd
But what of those afternoons
that linger as fragrant dried roses
somewhere in his everyday words
You will still be tomorrow, Indira
here to count moles on his beloved
half-forgotten face
(As posted to a Facebook poetry group Singpowrimo)
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