Dear you-know-who-you are,
It's been a long time since I wrote to you,
scratch that out, for I never did write.
It seems so long now, doesn't it,
when I was in a forest, and you were hiring headcounts.
Midnight on a rickety old terrace,
and even later on the inky seashore;
sitting cross-legged, sharing stories,
boxes of Ferro-rocher;
long scooter rides;
veshti-clad Chennai Sangamam visits;
and chat conversations,
hundreds of lines long.
Why do I write now, when I was the one that went away?
When all that was, is not, and will never be?
It's just something that I've felt for very long,
but could never say, never could find the words.
Though I could never give you what you wanted,
I wish I had been man enough to tell you,
I wanted you, nonetheless.