You gave me a poem to write

You were going back

I would have to wait for the reason

You talked relentlessly about the weather

I noted that only old people talk about weather

You said you were old and you were re-starting your life at 27

I said I re-started when I was 24

You said 3 years is a crucial difference...

What really happened in a week?

I cannot possibly know

You were talking about the weather because you said to talk about anything else was painful

I could not guess what pain it was

You looked sad putting up a brave face

I was sad and did not know how I looked

Did you count the number of times we met?

I often term them as meets and not dates

Lately you often looked impatient in those meets

I was so glad to meet you that I deferred the Paul Austeresque investigations

You perhaps wanted me to enquire

I perhaps should have been less hesitant- more forceful in my inquiry

You guided our conversations to me, Tagore, Ray, Calvino, Madame Bovary ...

I never steered them away to you

You gave me a poem to write

I should have made you the poem of my life

To 'You' and Paul Auster