He says it is difficult to be my distant lover because often he tip toes on his moon-light carpeted deck to gaze at the moon exactly how I write about it in my poems.
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In the intimacy of our conversations, he awaits for each of my sentences with bated breath as if I am singing him melodies of Gulzar, sometimes punctuated by him giggling at my choice of reading John Green, saying that he can't believe that we both grew up reading Enid Blyton and Franklin W Dixon, but nothing feels more beautiful to him than this. And if at that I say ...