— Prithu Sanyal.
There was so much to do,
homework to do,
a few emails.
A stray poem or two
was meant to be written.
There was talk of writing a story,
your story and mine.
There was so much to do,
talk with you
for hours on end.
Conversation.
Nothing gets done,
yet time goes on passing.
Nothing gets done,
everything stays
just the same.
Just as before.
I keep running away from everything,
running away from love,
from marriage.
From life.
Nothing gets done at all.
And yet
there was so much to do.
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