a poem by Hema Rangaswamy

You comb your wet hair in the sun
tiny drops clinging on your tendrils
fall on me like rivulets of rain
I try to capture them fast
but they dry very soon
just like your mercurial love
your comb brushes strand by strand
pulling, weaving in a harsh motion
I feel as if I am punished
you glance down at me
comb poised half way in shock
hurriedly walk inside to recover
few wisps of your hair
fall gently on my face – valueless
like my unrequited love.