Would you still write poems
when the walls come crashing down
and walk beside me on the sidewalk
in the numbing, cold rains.
Someone who keeps me up
with words that make a difference
and goes on silent, long-drawn
bookshop dates and nostalgia trips.
Someone who scribbles in my
sketchbook his wiry handiwork
just to annoy the hell out of me
and then take me to poetry-slams.
Someone I can ponder with
about all the mysteries in our mind
Someone who says things
without worrying about time.
Someone I can talk art with
And not worry what he thinks
about my opinion and
Has one of his Own.
I see images of you in many,
but I settle down for none.
Because you’re somewhere out there,
looking for the one.
{blinks} 