All night November,
I was searching the vulnerable
lips after loosing you.

Now fingerless hands
were moving the sun-dial
away from light.

The shroud was heavy,
I would not breathe.
Give me a blue moon before dawn.

You cannot engage in
sudden withdrawl. I will
come back for a kiss.

The paper that leaves a wound,
I will not sign for the bread.
My hands had stopped trembling.
Satish Verma