Why

do I love you so, and regret my winter
evenings spent alone in Calcutta as the smog rolls across the river
and churns up sorrows
best forgotten and drowned in the cream
being whiplashed and the coffee being stirred
among the familiarity of snug ghosts and darkness?
Why do I love you so, and miss my beats as I strip you
naked in my dreams and ravish the wonderment of your soul
like grapefruit punch? Why do I always blow my lines
when I write to you, my youth galore,
my sadness wine, my fairness cream, my winter anew?

Prasenjit Maiti