Abandoned

​No, he didn’t quite know
To weave poems himself
But there were books
Lines marked and written
Whose ink now fade
In letters never posted.

Calendars on that wall
And dates circled for years
That he waited for her
Crumpled letters scattered
All started none complete
And a dry fountain pen.

It still rains outside
As I walk through the dust
To meet a love like none
In the wait of calendars
In letters of silent despair
And a pen dry of hope.

© Arindam Dey

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