The lazy morning light
gently caresses
her tired acheing body.

She has woken after
a lonely night
of longing for her lover.

Dressed again in that saree
like how she used to
everytime he came to her.
And how across the night
he gently removed all drapes,
moistening her butter skin
with his kisses.

It would ache, it would
oh so much, and yet
she would want some more.

He didn’t come last night.
Not the night before.
And not before.

She is tired today.
Her dropping aachal is tired.
Her parched skin is tired.
Her dry lips are tired.
Her waiting eyes are tired.
Her greying locks are tired.
Her broken heart is tired.

The night aches, but no longer
brings him home,
neither does the light.

© Arindam Dey

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