You came to me, one monsoon night,
while I was sitting alone, frozen
at one corner of my cubicle, thinking
soberly intoxicated and wide awake
from the debris of thought and despair
that had weighed me down. I was
a July in December. A bohemian
that didn’t quite fit with the world,
was how I felt. But,
you told me that you were the key
to open the slender solace for my soul,
that might keep me ‘holding on’.
I opened, the journal,
and poured my heart out with words
I’ve imbibed from your intoxication
to the white blank pages.
I told myself, why
had I been searching for the key
when you were always open for me.
the harlequin 