I have developed
An Appetite for Love.
I want to request all the migratory birds
To deliver your messages unhurriedly.
I want to weep alone like a child
And name it your unique brand of Love.
I want to write passionate love letters
But never deliver them to you ever.
I want to meet you after decades of tiff
And confess my countless deaths.
I want to eradicate all the miseries from the world
But die of one myself.
I want to burn all the newspapers of the world
And feed the heap to dictators.
I want to name all the jilted lovers
Martyrs of an unknown realm.
I want to pronounce Separation
As a Game of Desires.
I want to look deep into your eyes
But willingly fail to locate the epicenter of my sickness.
I want this poor poem to end
At the huge door of your elite house.