The coffee has gone cold already,
a layer of cream silently settling itself,
just as I settle myself in a corner, silently...
a book between my thumb and forefinger,
but I'm not reading.
The sun has set long back,
maybe some two hours back
and I realize that by the darkening room.
Somehow, even the darkened room
is a sort of comfort, a solace.
I keep staring at the clock in a fix.
The handles never move, it lays still
just like the thumping of my heart,
which feels numb after all this time.
Paulo Coelho screams from the paperback
which I hold a tad bit too tightly
scared of letting go of one more aspect.
He tells me of the Zahir
and makes me realize once more
that I lost my Zahir.
I feel myself moving unwittingly to my desk
gulping down the coffee in a go
and taking out my diary,
I scribble something that's incomprehensible, even to me...
"The world isn't a wish granting factory "
The poster screams at me
from across the wall.
I nod with a heavy heart, "But we all wish it was, don't we?"