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A Dead Letter

By Divya Bharti


Dear lover,

The letters I write to you every Saturday night,

are the dead letters with dead words and the dead paragraphs.

When you open them, you can't read.

If you read, you can't comprehend.

If you comprehend, you still fail to understand;

My exclamation,

My punctuation.

And when I tell you to get over,

because I need a full stop.

I need just one moment,

of nothing happening.

But that doesn't happen.



Nothing stops. You don't stop;

when you're supposed to stop.

I moan and there's a broken groan.

Dead words don't help.

There is an eloquent silence,

there is a deafening shriek.

There is a frustration and a joy.

The night stretched for eternity;

the cold night that will defrost itself with a warm hug, when we meet.

If, we meet.


The letters I write to you every Saturday night, are the letters with intent and emotion.

are the letters for you to read and understand.

are the letters I always thought gives you some respite. It doesn't.


The letters I write to you every Saturday night are now, 'the letters; I used to write.'


You're no more a lover.


By Divya Bharti



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