One of my books
in a plastic jacket
contains a stain on the cover,
a burnt spot.
I was extremely annoyed
when my mama (maternal uncle),
who took it for a reading,
while returning it,
in an apologizing tone
confessed: so sorry,
I fell asleep
and it’s my cigarette’s doing.
Only a badly sketched smile
appeared on my face;
no words of wound
escaped from my injured heart thankfully.
It was once upon a time.
I was a college student then.
He is no more.
I sometimes place my hand
on that black shapeless mark
and feel his presence
and sigh.
Posted for Sumana’s Midweek Motif ~ Books @ Poets United
sumanar/lekha 
