Poets

The cloth cover of the chair on which you sit remains uncreased after your departure. Not a drop of water is spilt after you quench your thirst. Not a single leaf of this flowerless shrub is disturbed by your visit. In this mutedly lit room between your coming and going nothing has moved nothing out of place. Still from somewhere there has descended a great sadness.

There is no one here. You may go.

Another day and somehow we have made it back to the room. Carry-bags and smelly underclothing float to the ground all over the city. You sprinkle cold water on your face. Rubbing itchy palms, I sink into a chair. We begin to say something about today's happenings. Our sentences stay unfinished, those incidents forever incomplete. The shadow of all that remains undone and unobserved lingers between us. Between mouthfuls, while channel surfing, I enquire distractedly about the backache you had two days ago. You nod and continue to eat. Letters have to be answered - at least today. In our own ways we try to create images of succour in our minds. The faces crumble unformed. Our days yearn to subside into early sleep, unfurl into early awakenings. We embrace. Just heat, no warmth in our flesh. We turn away, tired, back to our dry papery bodies. Here's no loneliness no fear no emptiness. Just exhaustion.