Holding hands longer than typing

My laptop confirmed, I type
For longer than hold your hands,
How tightly I hold the sands
Witness to our kiss in full daylight

Now you question about your weight
Your hand-crafts and certificates,
As If this life could be validated by pieces
of paper or answers straight
out of books.

Talking of books reminds me
of poems that make me cry,
I Hold my tears as I try
To balance a conversation that passed by.

You hold that string of words
like a bow
with a quivering arrow
and ask if  I lost my vocal chords.
I nod as I pick up shards of sorrow.

That evening of promise, that beach
full of waves, leading to the street
that climbed up the hill of vice
and broken church frequented by knaves.

On a dark night as a ghost led us around
I have found maps in pieces
(clues ask for a pound of flesh too)
and followed the lost sounds of togetherness.

That kid from the next door,
that bike ride from station to station,
that walk in the rains
and the telephone liaison.

It's a quilt from our earlier bedroom,
Where the bed creaked stories to our neighbors,
Its pattern may be the missing piece of the puzzle,
or a lead to the wanton moors instead.


(copyright: Ashish Asgekar)