Strangers. Poem by Subhadip Bhattacharya

There is a picture in front of the
cover of a diary lying on my desk.
The picture is of two strangers
walking away face turned.
The diary has been lying
on my desk for months now.

At first I didn't notice
then slowly it got hold of me.
I got an urge to get away
of that diary from the front of
my eyes. It didn't work.

I didn't do anything. I let
it rest on my desktop.
Now I have an urge
to talk to these strangers.
Before that I also thought
of tearing the front of the diary.

But now the urge of talking
to these strangers has got hold of me.
I don't know. But talking to strangers,
especially to pictures of faces turned
pictures is something unheard of.

I know they will never come in real
life and I will never be able to
see these people of the picture.
I know they are still looking,
from the cover of the diary,
and knows every thought of mine,
that is passing by.

Maybe I am wrong. But I don't think so.
Staring st then and lighting cigarette,
after cigarette, I say if only they knew I
wanted to talk to them.
Some harmless conversation.

Out of everyday life,
out of life,
out of space, into different orbits.
Where strange electrons only rotate.
Where ether is cold,
and the photon particles,
will never collide.

So many different conversations,
and slowly, like soft murmur.
Like a trip to the unknown,
world of pain and back.
Reporting, only reporting.
No complains.
If only they will allow.
These adamant pictures,
lying on my desktop.