Or may be, I wanted to ask if you also find me in the gaps between metaphors, the gap before the turning of pages at nights, the gap between those abandoned calls. I called him last night as ticking of clocks and amusing clouds were not enough to leave a teardrop on my skin, as the salmon pink of sky was not enough to drown me into the drunk sunlight, as the origami airplane had refused to hover with your poems in the sky. Or may be,
