Nothing Comes of Nothing.

I remember I wrote to you
Everyday in the Autumn.
I remember writing in Spring too
In Summer, Sadness,
Laughter, Languidness
Through the brown, sadder Rains.
I remember I wrote
Every Season
Everyday.

Nothing can come of nothing
King Lear roared in my ears
In old voices
In humid classrooms.
I wrote to you
Every way
Lest I be Hamlet.
Hamlet with the sweat on his brow,
Sigh, the monsoony Calcutta evenings.

I remember you had spoken,
Lighting up the fleeting
October purple
The dazed city sky
Hopeful of another dawn.
I remember Plath
And I remember Camus.
The scent of arguments on those walks
I remember your clear eyes.

I wrote, I wrote madly.
I spoke till our voices were tired
And lives choked.
I remember I wrote the end
The year-ends and silver evenings
Laden with failures,
Burnt like never before.

Nothing came of nothing.
Parmenides had proved,
Old Lear had told.
I remember the emptiness of all diaries,
The shrill cry of winter wind
Moaning.
I remember Ophelia drowning in those pages,
I remember I kept writing,
The sole writer of it all.