Ring-ring the phone sounds,
I know it is you,
Ring-ring the second time,
I hope it is you.
Ring-ring, as I snatch it finally,
It is not you.
Tells me so
The vibrating harbinger.
There you are,
Crossing the road,
Your messy, shaggy hair
Obstructing your beautiful face.
But, then I look away,
And there too you are,
Sipping from a coffee mug,
Reading Jane Eyre.
Not far away from yourself,
You sit next to an attractive girl,
And across the both of you,
You watch yourself feeling her up.
You are everywhere
And in everything
I have even a little faith in,
Mocking me with your
Complex ubiquitousness.
I may or may not understand
Any of the answers
To this one simple question:
Why did you, of all people,
Had to turn around and
Smile at me?
It is an obsession,
A mad, compulsive need
To keep going back to you,
As if you were the drug and
I, an addict.
Ring-ring the phone goes
However, it is never you.
Chaitanya 