you, for whom i write
when
when will you
read
yourself
in me.

you, who flow through me
when
when will you
cease
colouring my innocent page.

you, who say “i don’t know you enough”
when
when will you
say
stop
you’ve written much.

you , who never read me
when
when will you
ask
no more
“what does this poem mean?”

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.

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