I gave her a book of poems
for her birthday.

And an eraser.

Not that the graphite words
were exceptionally poignant
but I felt that a gift
with a little something
scribbled on it
would be a bit more personal
than one that’s unblemished.

Even though the letters were destined
to be as fleeting
as those on sand,
even though the waves were the gentle
graceful strokes of her fingers,
even though it was a sanitisation
that could have easily been avoided
had she chosen me
over him,
I wrote them.

Because I knew that like scars
the tiny indentations would stay
and her beautiful fingertips
would feel them
if she ever chose
to run them over the page
while thinking of me.

If she’s ever thinking of me.

So I wrote with a pencil
and didn’t flinch
when my affection was reduced to
little grey globs of synthetic rubber.

“For my dearest       , Love Anjuman”
was all that I’d written, anyway.