There is tomorrow
but perched at its front,
always sits a 'may be'
or a 'maybe'—
and if not leading,
then it follows.
‘May be’ tomorrow
or tomorrow, ‘may be.’
‘Maybe’ tomorrow
or tomorrow, ‘maybe’.
Whichever way, perhaps
we will still be together
come tomorrow
and that is so much easier
to convey.
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.