Once you asked the Poet
Why she wrote a million poems,
yet never one about you?
If you were ever anything to her-
a smoke, a fog, or even a drop of dew?
And you made her think,
your worth, your essence, your being.
You were like Breath,
Always in me,
Although I couldn’t ever see.
I was alive,
I was breathing,
yet never feeling,
The breath in me.
I wrote couplets,
I wrote odes,
At each of life’s crossroads.
You were in me,
You were behind me,
There you were,
where I couldn’t see.
Holding me uptight, whenever I fell,
But you were there with me,
You never could tell…
I saw you at the bends,
when the roads turned
Like a shadow of my past,
That often returned.
You followed wherever I walked,
You listened all through,
I remember,you never talked.
At each road I remember,
I wrote a Poem or two.
Until one day I found,
I have never written about you.
That was the day,
When my last breath was left.
That was the night,
when of words I was bereft.
Perhaps I never wrote,
because you never put me at any crossroad.
You followed me, my Breath.
At each road, until death.
Unseen, unacknowledged.
Taken for granted, in blind faith.
Now,
Your absence was your presence,
A Poem-
Unwritten, unacknowledged,
But speaking My life’s essence…
The breath was gone.
And I was gone too.
I was gone now,
without writing about you…
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