By Ria Mukherjee
A lover for eleven rushed days,
Like a sudden gale,
Swept everything away.
A cyclone's ire, a butterfly's wings.
Seeing him on the phone screen,
My eyes would glisten,
Though he sat thirty-three hours away,
Our love was hasty, a mere eleven days.
Those days dragged by, endless nights.
A fallen leaf, wilted and crumbled,
No longer clasps to the branch,
Crushed underfoot, unseen, unnoticed,
Once vigorous, now perished and pale.
Once upon a time, it was fresh...
By Ria Mukherjee
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