The Handkerchief.

The crushed,
piece of white linen,
the one
that bears stains
of passion,
the one that
i quietly stole,
while you pretended
you didn’t notice.

It now lies in my bag
neatly folded.
After that night ,
when I sneaked into my bed
in darkness ,
I had taken it out
and taken a deep breath .
I tried to find out
whether it still
had your smell.

I din’t quite understand.
I seemed confused .
‘cos I dint find you there.
But I found our passion
and I held it firmly
against my chest.
My lips it seems smiled
and my moist eyes
slowly got heavy with sleep.

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11 thoughts on “The Handkerchief.

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