Rukma Banerjee

Calcutta, India
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The nights we didn't make love

The nights were like this.
Quiet, and dark, and the stars shattered and they were so, so many.
This.
This was the present.
To be. To see.
Unable to count their number, memories of that night lingered, when sleep was abandoned and the sky was given as a gift and grace.

The moon, she hung low for seven days in a row, a mellow orb, unchanging in shape or promise.

Stardust and ether and love-glitters and forevers, strewn all around,
As we kissed each others tremulous eyes.

Those were nights we didn't make love, love made us;
Love being what love is -
Mostly moments and sometimes a life-time...
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