The words I write, are they poems?

 

Today afternoon
in the afterglow of making love
as my hands fiddled with
with stubborn locks in your hairs,
you had asked -
why I scribble
seemingly random words
that often break the rules
      of elementary grammar
and call them, well,
      poems?

How long, you wondered,
      will they live
before getting thrown
in the dustbins of time.

You got me thinking,
why do I, indeed?

I mulled over the question
rest of afternoon, and then…

…over the dinner spoke
ending up
      in the dustbins of time
      is okay;
what matters more
is that the words I write
are the white pills of sanity
to rescue my mind
from the headwinds of
      existential angst.

They help me sleep
      through the night
and to be with you
      during the day
so I can play
with those stubborn locks
in your hair.

You smiled, reached out
pinched my cheeks
and word, they were okay.