You sat there for a while until I switch on the lights. I arranged the cluttered books into a tryst of arrangement, stroking them gently to sleep while they hushed in silences, talking about the precedented unfinished poem of poet. (Read caption) Sometimes it's ok to not have long chats. I remember once we had this small chat with silence enveloping our words, it was the longest chat we ever had. My silence reached you and you were sitting with your back against the wall. All that time, I was holding the door knob, pausing the uncertainty. Listening the same song on both the sides, we switched off the lights and sat near the window. The moon was hanging and we lost our words to gravity. I tried to catch your words while you holded the moon in the dancing ballerina music box, I gifted you. The fall of poet's words were caught up by the wind and it rained heavily infront of my window as I never let them pass, so the cloud cried over the silence tryst under the tree of night holding the dark branches, on which we both were sitting sideways, hand in hand, our backs talking in silence. You took the moon from your other hand and placed infront of me, so I can read your midnight braille with all my eyes open. Unfortunately, the light was so illuminating that it penetrated deep inside, burning the vision. I let go off the door knob to clean up the messed up books lying on the table waiting, to be get read. Without realizing, you were on the other side, you dragged along as the door opened. You fell on the edge of thin walled misunderstanding. I gave you my hand but you said, "I still got hairs and the line of receding hairline is the proof of my mistakes and I regret making them". I tried to touch them but you rejected saying, "I don't want to get bald".
