At crossroads,
they met again.
She stopped short and he smiled.
And then, years of a dreary longing flashed before her teary eyes,
and the wind carried to her,
the warmth of his remembrance.
It rained that fateful night,
when at crossroads they met.
And there wasn’t even a touch,
still, bare passion rose like a sulking swollen stream,
overflowing its banks.
And in words that weren’t worded,
she wrote a poem in her mind,
he captured a moment in his photographic memory.
It rained dreams that night.
They fell like glass and shattered near her feet.
He stepped on them and moved on ahead,
and they weren’t at crossroads anymore.
Although his desires hurt,
and his heart was sore,
best it be left to folklore,
that two lovers met where their paths crossed,
but there was nothing to be said,
and all that was felt,
was the need to find each other’s brittle hearts still bled.


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