When love changed its meaning for me, when I held her in my arms. Virgina sat under the table and told me the secrets of a depressed writer, I leaned down and held the wood in between the spaces of my fingers. She quoted Ghalib and for once, I thought it was Faiz Ahmad talking about Revolution. (Read Caption) When darkness caught me in a whiff of my smoking dream, I became a subtle poetry in the hands, I borrowed from Bukowski's doubts. I held it firmly in my fist, to value the art, I am left with. When my existence left my home,
