I drizzle in my ink to write you
words that are vying for sentences; they go awry
The rain stops and beckons me
for a splash and little play
I go outside leaving the ink behind
The felt-tipped ink becomes dry
leaving cracks to my blue blooded pen
In paper they leave a swirl of amorphous clumps;
I peer to look what’s written inside
only to find us intertwined,
appearing in pages of smeared ink.

– Shweta Kher