TOUFIQ UL ALAM
When A Book Speaks its Mind
It has been hours, days or, weeks, Perhaps?
Since my Last page has been turned,
Felt the last touch of Love,
Tender.
I remember those intense moments,
When we were together.
Heavy breaths; foaming sobs;
Or, happy laughters.
It has been months....or, years, perhaps?
Since you looked back,
held me with you hands,
Kissed me.
Silly Me! I am a book lying,
Like many others,
I have been read.
I tend to forget,
That I have nothing new to offer.
My stories, or, poems,
Are matters of the past now.
They don't excite you anymore.
So, it has been years, or, decade, perhaps?
Since, you came,
And dusted me.
Worms are eating me alive,
yet, It has been generations... I presume?
Since you have come,
To salvage me last,
From my utter despiration.
Silly Me! I tend to forget,
I have nothing new to offer.
So, It has been a century, or, two, perhaps?
Since, a lover came,
To read me anew.
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