She is seventy; so am I; both live.
She is a widow and I am still virulent.
I imagine seeing her in a function
Where she is supposed to come but hasn’t,
And recollect how we were in that village
As lovers, well knit by hearts and limbs.
We meet, and beat about the bush to talk.
She has lost luster and grace; shyness too.
With a deep sense of her as a woman
On farther plane than mine and is cordoned,
I have no guts to reach her and hold her,
Notwithstanding our earlier intimacy.
01.08.2010
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