Gradually, I’ll start reporting to work on time,
Preparing one less cup for the morning tea,
Counting one less person for a movie.
Over time, I’ll be back to wearing greys and whites,
Loving the monsoon but getting irritated of the rains,
Reciting how my day went to a blank paper and pen.
Soon, I’ll stop lying to people about where I slept last night,
Forget how it felt to be cuddled to dreams,
And pick your perfume over sedatives to help my insomnia.
Eventually, I’ll get used to a new life,
Laugh with a different set of people,
And never smile the way I used to, just at the thought of seeing you.
But a writer’s heart never forgets,
And no one would know that ‘I’m missing you’,
Maybe because last page scribbles aren’t meant to be understood.