It did not seem to matter much – your absence in my life, 
till this evening when I received a postcard from the Island 
you live. It has a picture of an unfolded suicide note on a 
wooden table with a suggestion of bright yellow patch of 
sunlight from the window. The young evening at your window 
seemed restless and the sky outside seemed concerned 
about you – a handsome man in khaki trousers and pure white 
shirt, his eyes averted with no expression, or is it deliberate 
an effort to hide the sadness, which is dripping from the 
inner walls of his heart, shoulders drowned in the gravity of 
memories from the streets, which he is reluctant to visit them again.    
I could feel murmurs of the golden harvest of our summers, 
the stolen kisses in the ripe nights of April, the warmth of brief 
embraces crawling up to our backs firmed up against the door 
shut tight and secured, within the folds of agonized wrinkles 
around his mouth.
It did not seem to matter much – your absence in my life 
till this evening when I received a postcard from the Island 
you live. I terminated subscribing to your updates from the 
moment at the cabin, where we argued over some issue 
{forgive me, I can not recall}, but trivial matters of life 
decide the fate of Affairs of hearts......
{Most would not recommend taking a break when a line of thought  is being 
put down, it could be great a thought or an admirable effort from someone 
within his / her abilities & faculties. Alok would not appreciate this either. 
But, I somehow, prefer taking a break. A break -  my French classes, 
a pleasant drive on Sunday roads, one more dead body of a stray 
dog lying in a pool of blood brought tears in my eyes as I recalled when I killed  
a heart-beat at one's feet that night, Roger Federer, the Gentleman 
who cried after clinching the Wimbledon title for  the fifth time straight,thus 
equaling the legendary act of Bjorg, his words draped in gentle 
robes of simplicity, his accolades for his rival, my dearest boy Nadal...     
-------------A break, when I had pleasant conversations with Barb, Rajiv, 
a brief pause around Abhi----------

Life when you were with me, I cannot say that it 
was in  its exotic best, but there were two simple-heads, 
two pairs  of eyes, two pairs of playful legs dissecting 
everything around. Now, in your absence, I feel utterly 
naked at times, and my skin conditioned itself to it over 
a period of time. I roam about the streets like a mermaid 
who had lost her home address, her cheeks and nose pressed 
hard against the glass window searching for a familiar face. 
But, it's not that bad either. My words are gentler now, 
I see poetry dripping from everything, everyone, I just have 
to drench my fingers with that, my words went to the shop 
and bought one more pair of  pure white robes for themselves. 
I never forget to smile at people, never forget to thank them 
for being with me for a part of their lives. I make youngsters 
in my class roar with laughter with my humorous remarks.

And I still keep notes for you everyday - a few lines on the man 
who gets into the elevator, whose right hand was amputated, 
a few on the old woman who begs in the corner, etc etc. 
I have been waiting for the day when I could share them with 
you {the woman who loved the man truly stays true to 
the interaction, while the man marries another woman- I would not 
call this as a betrayal, but something he has to perform!}
Never expected a postcard with a picture of suicide note,from the Island 
you live. You, who were closer to me and now seemed so far .....    
----Jyo (I was toying around with a much stronger, cruel set of words, 
but the break moisturized me!}   ..finished on June 8th 2007.
{Bangladeshi author Taslima Nasrin wrote the poem given below........}          

With as much pain as  a human being becomes a woman, 
That much  pain makes a woman a poet. 
A word takes a long year to be made, 
a poem an entire life.        

When woman becomes a poet, she is totally a woman. 
Then she is mature enough to give birth from her suffering heart, 
Then she knows how to care for a word.

You have to be a woman first if you want to give birth to a poem. A word without any pain is fragile, breaks when touched. Who knows more than a woman all the lanes and alleys of pain!