You don’t give me any trice to unwind,
Sometimes killing me with your silence,
Sometimes making me glow in soothing light.

And in those rare occasions,
When you shower your love,
The feeling is pristine,
Like flight of thousand doves.

But before I could see,
Any herald of hope,
The thread holding us,
You snap away that rope.

And you assume silence,
Leaving me in despair,
And then I wait,
Till the blue moon reappear.

Copyright © Shantanu Baruah