Waiting for that paper, a light
A cursor that keeps blinking for the next word
Even when the screen arranges to sleep in daylight
Fingers begin to itch and start being febrile.

An email, such a pity,
is more accessible than
a post box.
All the handwriting fonts that I did try, couldn’t,
Just possibly couldn’t mirror the impeccable tries
To struggle to be parallel to the top
Or bottom of a page.

The improbability of what the next thought would be
The prediction  of where the addressee would smile
Or frown, or pick up eyes to stare at the wall for a while,
To embrace what had just been conveyed.

Letters are like light, they reach us later
From when they were born, but the spaces
they illuminate or burn on their arrival!
I wonder if our pupils shrink.

They more than just tag along, they tap in,
They’re the result of cleaning the ink from
the nib, a thousand times, over thousands
of sentences, or maybe just a few, but they do.

And don’t dare ask the pen for proof!
It’ll track down wrinkled pages
Who had their thirst quenched by
The swipes of fountain pens’ fountainheads,
And pictures of the fingers
Bathed in red, and black, and blue,
And occasionally of table clothes
Spilled over by the consequence of imperfect handles.

Imagine if light came as soon as it was made,
It would be difficult for our eyes to handle such bait
Sometimes, a pause is necessary,
Imagine a world without commas!

I’d like to peek into the writer’s letters,
Not to read, but to sense the shapes of emotions
And stretches of As and Ns, or the reach of commas
On the next line, and then, close my eyes
And shove my nose in it, to sniff hard
The paper and the blue smells,
And die doing so if it was eventual.

Someone once told me about a man,
He polished shoes  all his life
Every hour, every day, he had no wife,
And then he went to heaven.
I, I polish men.
They come to me, uncut blocks of stone
I chisel them carefully, my soul's torn
But  there's  an edge still undone
A sand papered finger across his jaw
Blowing gently on his lips, I draw a whiff
Of the women he will kiss. I'm stiff
And weary, there are bags beneath
my eyes, bags he laces with the sheath
Of my sleepless nights, as he leaves
To adorn someone else's ring,
As always, I wait for morning.

The answer is -

The universe,
Its origins unknown, and so the end
In its ever expanding conscious
With all its suns, and seas, and sand,
More than that.

My fear,
Dark and deep, unending abyss
Layers upon layers of broken trusts
Loves gone amiss,
More than that.

Your anger,
Red, then scarlet, then crimson
Blood pooling around my open wound
A battle against fission,
More than that.

But,
Apparently not enough.

In the ocean was a drop of oil
not wanting to cease the boundary
but when the oil drop plummeted well
in the vast expanse of the profoundly
seamless ocean waves, and when it
hit the endless particles of water
he saw that love was all there was
and love was all there is, and love
is all there will be, and he melted
into the heart of the ocean, only to evaporate
so that part of it, could come back and
love the ocean like by being
a drop in the sea, but also the parts
of it which didn't make it, had learnt already
Where ever they were now, were already burnt
in the love of knowledge of love, for love
is what there was
and Love is what there is

When a humble abode, redirects you
like the page redirection of gmail
to think your body is not more than
a container to get you the bail

Of the next life that you'd get
in the astral or the causal tree,
or perhaps you'll dissolve you bet,
in the ever flowing cosmic sea.

To myself I ask, say
who am I and wait.
I don't know, but
every time I ask this
explicitly or implicitly
in the voice that isn't
even head voice,
echoing in the head,
but that unknown
experience of yourself
saying something
to yourself
without words.
I smile a little.
Repeatedly asking
this question gives
more strength and will
of what I know not,
than before, even
on failing to get
a definitive answer.