Talking to me is holding my alone hands.
I may not say it when we speak, but it's true.
When i couldn't find hands, i started on poetry,
My lines are a search for unity in desolation.
I can exchange them for your warm, unwavering gaze
And the time you give to fill mine with kindness,
Acknowledgment of my specialness, unstated
But that i can sense, like two ponds in proximity
About to become an oxbow lake, melted in reverse,
Then looking for another and another, until we're
A gushing river that has no time for itself,
Curving in glee towards the all-embracing sea.
Sanjib Basu 