You are just a finger’s movement away
Or so I often think
But there are times when
That nameless female’s voice
In a cheery indifferent tone
Tells me that the tender repartee
I had been weaving all day long
Cannot reach you for now.
That busy tone from the other end
Feeds perpetually on a romanticist’s soul
Degenerating it into
Scattered crumbs of futile hopes.
No, I do not wish to be
That little bird perched on your window sill
Or the moon among clouds
That stalks you through your blinds
Neither the wind that
Swishes through your thick mane
Nor those cigarettes
That you put to your lips a zillion times.
But if you were to ask me,
Do I envy them?
With all sincerity
I’d say yes, I do
For no technology
Distances them from you.
Sumaiya holds a postgraduate degree in mass communication and journalism. She enjoys languoring in a world of her own, experimenting with poetry, short fiction, crochet hooks, and yarn—and occasionally a camera.
Ananya is a design student and dog lover. When she's not busy drawing odd faces, she loves munching on some grape-flavoured Tang while keeping her stationery intact. She has a weakness for fine-nibbed black pens and