Inside the envelope

You are like an envelope: unopened, unidentified;
addressed to a place non-existent
about whose whereabouts no globe or map
holds any information. The wind this autumn has
mischievously carried you to my
doorway. Inside my house, you may be
an unwelcome guest. My bedposts may refuse to
bear your weight, and my room may not recognize you;
you may cringe at the touch of
the slab over the desk, and you’re a stranger for my
wooden windowsills. All the objects of my room may
stare at you with reticent eyes but don’t
feel misplaced, for in spite of its willful apathetic silhouette,
this room is the same place where
I’ve kept waiting for you, waiting for you,
so long. Many nights, the wait has
turned into vain, bearing oodles of agony and heaps
of misery, and many years of life
have dissolved into the mysterious clusters of past
lying in this room. Don’t feel dazed looking at them, they all know you
very well and have heard about you a million times.
But now, when you are here, in my hands, in these sheets, they
can't recognize you. It is tough to connect
a thought to reality. And in these sheets, they don’t realize
what they’ve been missing. These driblets of your soul
lying printed on each side of the paper, I can read you through
them. I can examine your heartbeats, hear your
murmurs, and can hold you against the
lamp of time to see - how over the years, your body
changed its curves and wind flung you from
place to place before bringing you to me. Beneath the alphabets,
your parts still live. Your eyes, that fine shape of them, the curve of your lips,
your fingers like tiny snakes moving on the piano keys.
The fragrance of your words, it has traveled
all across the narrow ravines of my soul. Treading softly
all its secluded terrains and corners, it has reached
up to the bottom. Many nights I’ve spent
burning and yearning, with my soul naked. Your words
sprinkled over my eyelids, your rhymes ringing in my mind,
your paintbrush delineating my dreams and your music
filling life in them. And now, I can see the future, I can see it
so clear, so intact on my heart’s easel. Your words have left
marks on my palms, and your chords lay
suspended in the air. Come; let’s knock each other’s hearts: say
a soft hello. Shyly, with a whistle and a sweet whisper,
let’s unlock the door and gently trod inside into each others’
folded selves and sleeping souls. Let’s share
another sip of love, another lip lock,
another night spent under the scrambled stars.
And in the snow this winter, we won’t remain
homeless anymore. It has been long and
we have been living roofless, walking over thick thorns and
cutting pebbles, with our souls bleeding and our minds starving. Come,
this winter
let’s get back to home.