Knocking at the door was never her habit,
She would move around on a tip toe.
I still remember her first touch,
Even though, 'twas over two decades ago.
It was her nature to be playful,
Often in the corners she would hide.
And sometimes, as I lay snug on my bed,
She would sneak in and lay by my side.
She was a traveler, full of vim,
Her packed stroller only a yearly sight.
Our romance was always numbered in weeks,
The annual goodbyes now rather trite.
This season I waited with wistful eyes,
Staring into memory's abyss.
Her last visit, I recalled, had been rather dull,
Perhaps, I sensed, there was something amiss.
The bother soon turned to despair,
As my eyes met her cursive ink.
She won't be able to make it this year,
She said, she needed some time to think.
I lay there in utter silence,
As the biting truth I tried to bide.
But soon, I was wont to her absence,
And I mustered the courage to step outside.
Two dainty hands pressed against my eyes,
Her giggles obviated any guess.
She knew how to tease, she always will,
The Delhi winter is a cruel mistress.
