By Jashan Preet Kaur
I want to be read like an old manuscript,
Kept and treasured,
As if my words and their meanings were all that a human was concerned about
And I was that one thing,
about and around which a whole span of that human life was based upon.
I want to be that mystery that gave goosebumps and when he started understanding me,
He had questions;
he wished he had answers to
Like the love‑song of his life,
He repeated me over and over all his life.
Like all poets,
He wrote me a hundred love‑letters
with metaphors on my existence,
And reading them gave him indescribable ecstasy.
And, like every tragic romance,
I would be in separation,
And he would go on…