Dear, some of my things are still lying at your place. A few rain lashed days and perhaps in one of my letters Lie wrapped all those nights. Forget the nights, Return the letters with rest of my things.

It is fall now, isn’t it? From that other fall, echoes of a few leaves falling From a branch, (remember that one, under which we were kissing?) I still wear like earrings. It appears that branch is still shivering. Just cut it down. And return the rest of my things.

Under my flimsy umbrella, remember after we were suddenly Caught by a storm and reached your place, half wet half dry? I think I dropped something as I dried myself then: my heart. See if you can find it next to your bed, still wet. Please return it along with rest of my things.

One hundred and sixteen moonlight nights, the line of your shoulders, The scent of wet henna on my hands, my silly complaints, All your promises, (that weren’t meant to be kept even then), These I can reprise again but I won’t. Just return my things.

…

Oh yes, what should I do with your letters? If you will permit me, I will burn them, And go to sleep, as they burn And go to sleep, as they burn.

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