THE TRANCE

I feel a first each time she comes
And sits close by--a hand perched soft
On my comforting thigh, and hums
Some popular number; on the loft
Of my designer upper chest
Her snuggled head at peaceful rest!

I feel a last each time on hers
Saying 'Bye', soaked in delights of smile--
The lustre alike nowhere glitters--
The charm none else would so beguile
As I do kiss her hand with a drop or two
Of my accumulating tears of woe!

I serve her like a servant
And love her like a savant 
When like a cunning bolt she appears,
Carrying all celestial grandeurs,
Before vanishing into illusion, 
As swallows me a deathly oblivion--
Gutted, forlorn...And I do yearn,

Heavy with loads of infatuation!

Then...

When the night is dead and deep,
When the recliner's arms
Have pulled me into sleep,

That vibrates my cell phone,

Flashing up her fond name

To my eyes flung open.

Started I scoop up the phone 

To my ardorous lips and ears

And hear that very question:
'What are you doing?'-- 

My nights' 'freak euphoriant'--
And naifly I jerk out,
At my nocturnal pedant,
Some babble of avid words
Textured by the Cupid's thrall,
As she giggles calling me a 'pagal';
And before I amend my cliches right,
She snaps the life-line, dashing my delight, 

With her parting shot: 'Good night!'

                                               -- N P Samal