Friday, 28 October 2011

The pouted lips,
the furtive glance
The dark eyes of yours
are the reason of my illness
which no medicine cures.
I just wait with bated breath
for what else is in store.
As you let your tresses loose,
I can bear it no more .
Are you aware ?
When you walk,
with such languorous disdain.
What really happens,
to people around?
They just go insane.
What makes you do?
these little things,
to take me off my guard
I don't know
why you have to
make my life so hard.
Sent from my mobile device
Arunangshu Paul
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