'After living all these months , dear, with you, day in and day out,
I'm leaving...'
He wrote using his favored black pen with pointed tip
On a piece of paper, handmade,
And folded the paper twice-horizontally once,
And vertically next,
And stealthily kept the note under his pillow,
Looking cautiously, for the last time the face of her, calm, ignorant;
And he slipped out of the room, silently,
Knowing well that she would wake up soon,
Not finding him by her side, in her trance;
Outside the dawn was just breaking,
And the milkmen had started cycling up and down the street;
And the pigeons from the ancient attic of the old building across the street,
Had descended on the empty street, in search of grains perhaps...
He walked down the street till he reached the arterial road,
From where he could cast his last glance to the first floor balcony overlooking the pigeon-filled street,
The same balcony which gave birth to his life and poetry,
The same windows from where she could see him arriving or going out,
He looked up till his eyes reached the top of the building...
He couldn't believe what he saw-
For there on the terrace, he saw her standing looking straight to him, from that distance,
Her hair was afloat in the morning breeze;
He squinted his eyes to get a better look of her face, from that distance...
He could not get the better view...he tried nevertheless...
'Was it a smile or a frown?'
He asked himself and kept staring for a while,
Before the blaring horn of a state bus brought him to the ground...
