You are the 59th minute of an hour,
24 years, 11-month-old standing outside a Delhi bar.
You are the one who missed the last train back home,
The one who couldn’t be like the Romans while in Rome.
You are the unsent letter, the unread book,
You are the kite entangled in a broken tree nook.
A kitchen full of ingredients without a cook,
You are the broken vow he never took.
You are the right person who ends up doing the wrong things,
You are an ambitious birds’ heavy, wet wings.
At the end of the tunnel, you are a mere flickering light,
You are the one losing but never giving up the fight.
You are the autumn leaf on the verge of falling off the tree,
The anxious prisoner waiting for tomorrow’s sunrise and you’ll be free.
You are that patch in the garden discoloured and wild.
In a world full of mature adults you are still a child.
You are the rejected dreamy proposal under the Eiffel tower,
You are a beautiful bouquet of allergic pollen-laden flowers.
You are the perfect shoe that doesn’t fit,
The moron who still keeps going at it and doesn’t quit.
You are the one who slipped a few steps before the finish line,
With your insides collapsing, you always say you’re fine.
You are a scented candle without a wick,
You are the idea that will never click.
In a world of 100s, you are the 99.9.
An undiscovered gold mine.
You are almost there but not quite,
An aircraft holding short, waiting to take flight.