by Arik Mitra

The doors of the café don’t
speak to me now.
‘Twas not an invitation when we used
to glance at each other back in the day.
There was no smell of coffee, no lost
traces of acquaintance,
just a glance, that lists
the turmoil between
furniture space, and
lingering ripples inside my head.

© 2021 Arik Mitra  All rights reserved.

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