i don’t know if you’ll ever know

what it means to be a me wanting a you;

needing the you who alternates between 

kannamma and babe. a me that won’t

let you through to see my weak knee that

the doctors fixed with steel and said were

fine for use; but i’ll always be wary of trouble

and so won’t walk to you. the you who won’t 

ever hear my voice crack on phone calls when

you are on your many escapades, many drug induced 

which always leaves me wondering how you

choose to come back to the state of normalcy

and bleak boredom that is me. i don’t know if you’ll

ever hear about the systematic breakdown that

i pick apart before i fall apart or down, so 

as to be so apathetic, that on wednesday evenings 

detachment sees its peak in places where

one wishes to be firmly rooted; sees the soil

but can’t be sowed, flies away before it can ever

be watered or gather roots. so, i don’t know if you’ll

ever know that i missed you on saturday night; 

of course, i could read you this poem and you would

know but poems aren’t to be read out in my awful voice

and so, a me won’t ever read to a you who will

hence never know, i guess.