Shooting Stars

It is over. The curtain falls.
I have come to settle―
my account with the waning moon.
 
Will call you later,
when the dawn breaks
and sun spells out the light.
 
The water has receded―
on the beach, leaving some
empty shells, hollowed fish
 
and upturned paper boats.
I move around the small pool,
left by the angry sea.
 
You will start commenting
on my poems. I wanted to read
your handwritten notes to know―
 
how your mind works.
I will not meet you again.