When my greeting reaches you,
Or just slip past by your preoccupied ignorant state;

And you face me with your eclipsed mind,
That puts on blindfold over your blind eyes;

Making me feel the chills of the winds from your side - giving me a sense of burning pain,
That mostly goes unnoticed like that finger with a paper cut,
making me cry for its existence;

The wind that mocks me for the paper cut acquired,
That my very book gave me in return of hours of my sitting with it,
And giving it all my eyes and all my ears;

To whatever it has to say,
To whatever it had to convey;

And then it turns and faces me with an eclipsed side,
Which, I was asked, to never see;

And then, a slight act of healing turns me deaf at my turn;
I remember,
You wrote 'I can't see you hurt',

But can you feel how hurt I am?
And how its agony stabs my hurt;

And I wrote 'you were too kind',
With no presumptions running in and out of my mind,

You wrote 'I am always there to help',
And it's just me that I was never a seeker;

And I never wrote back,
But now I say,

You were never to be bound,
'You were ignorant but the care was always around,
So, dear, it's time that you just make your expectations meet the ground';
© shashank bailwal