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Walking with his pen in his hand,
he said, “Love is good,
but I don’t want to write about it,
love is a luxury,
love poets a bit too bourgeois” , yes!
Our walk that evening,
was blooming like the spring
of our timed love,
just the beginnings,
revealing ourselves leaf by leaf,
imbricating petal by petal;
a certain coldness,
freezing our sweaty hands,
I warmed up, against his body,
standing under the street light
sparsely arranged at intervals,
on a busy lajpat nagar main road,
and whispered in his ear,
“To love in a world so cold,
is an act of rebellion”.
Seeing an old hawk-eyed man
pass by us, he quickly moved back,
letting a cold gush of wind
walk in between us.
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