Lucky loved me much and planned to discover what lies beneath a woman's heart. He engaged himself in metering the depth of my love through his poems. During this discovery, occasional frays and affrays took place, as he would shirk the obligations like calling at grocery shops and footing the telephone bills.
One day, another poem broke him into pieces. He grew too blue to configure those pieces ever.
I found the poem inside his pillow. “Sorrow” by Harindranath Chattopadhyaya,
“Sorrow is what the Creator creates for –
An arrow waits for
The breast of the dove;
Sometimes, the mate must be lost if the lover
Desires to discover
The depth of his Love.”
Shit! While in his youth, he took his pillow away and severalized the double bed into two lone sleepers. The poem was so effective that he became a defective husband... a defective writer.