To the Second Book

The bedsheets had different colours
with different patterns of creases that spoke of
random encounters with a lost and dull civilization.
There were nights spent on a lonely continent,
with a slowly growing love of the unknown and the foreign,
And then nights of food and drinks on a wooden round table made of love.
There were nights spent in the office with coffee,
and company that then mattered more than home,
and lessons that remain unforgettable forever.
There were nights spent in a one room apartment,
with best and worst of him and her,
and unwritten pages of a confused and desperate love.
There were nights spent at airports,
mostly alone or at times with momentary friends,
equally lonely and eager for love.
There were nights spent in my room that had
turned alien and unfamiliar after a year
abroad and now, threatened of unreal problems.
There were nights spent in talking over a call,
laughing out so hard at a stranger’s wisdom,
indebted to him for not asking my address more than once.
There were nights that brought regretful mornings,
ashamed of a transformed and derailed self,
unable sill to go back to the lost plan of action.
There were nights spent recollecting his voice,

imagining how Middle East differs from Europe,
and how United States could fit in all this.
There were nights spent in echoing prayers,
for the tears no longer restrain in her absence,
as I promise myself to encounter the truths.
And there are nights spent in thinking about you,
waiting for a miracle for which I had prayed two years ago,
counting as I sleep and wake up after each hour.
I have been sleeping at different places lately,
dreaming disheartening patterns of insanity and cures,
and yet awaiting another night with you.