It is strange she said that I should think of you so much

when there is nothing of you that I can hold on to

there is not a memory, not an experience

dreams yes, fantasies yes

of swinging legs,sitting idle, long silences

it is strange that I should think so much

of that ascent of your nose bridge

dividing the world into 2 halves

that half that you like

the half that you don’t

I must definitely fall into the second,yet

when rains fill the pores of the earth

with soft wetness, the drum and drill of moist drops

I think of you staring into something I cannot see from here

I could never see, could I?

perhaps I will never, ever, seemingly

it is still nice to think of a face I think I know

than to think of faces that think know me well

oh, too well, fitting me in and out

a case of ‘fitment’, strange it sounds, except you stranger

even if it is unlikely like the unmelting of glaciers

the singing of the dodo or the thumping of the dinosaurs

the skies roar in thunder,gentle folds of approval

heard a frog croak after a long time

a frog in a city, now that is something!

Ps: Post Mrs. Dalloway