As in the sylvia plath novels, melancholy was written all over this poem. Autumn was about to end, new chapter of summer about to begin. It all started the day i met her, her hair in the wind was painting the most beautiful picture. Her eyes kept all secret of her love. And her smile made me a prisoner. In her presence i was hopeless. And now years later we are reunited and I feel like all the ghosts of past summer came rushing to my heart.
Vale















