Coldest night of the year, the city
shivers
Even the streetlights refuse to show their
face
Seems they are on a strike demanding
less working hour and more wage
I trace the hurried footsteps of dying
light to reach her address
There she is, sitting by the window,
reading this poem
As I approach she smiles
May be I smiled, cannot remember
though
Who knows it really happened or I just
imagined it too
