They were meeting after a gap of a fortnight. He sported a stubble that day. She stopped about two feet from him, looked straight into his eyes and said, ‘Your clean shaven looked bowled me over. And then bit by bit I began loving you. But this look…’ She paused. Her pause was long enough for him to manage a stuttered word or two, ‘This is me. The dreamer in me.’ She did not smile and went on, ‘Yes, the dreamer in me loves the dreamer in you. But will your stubble accept the stubbles all over my body?’ He was stunned. He was, in his heart, expecting accolades for his beard. He thought she would moan and swoon on seeing his stubble and then then he would say, ‘Listen to the newest poem I wrote on you, for you, my dear.’ The stubble would make give him the sort of looks that poets have… he had thought. So he blurted out, ‘I thought you’d love my new poet look. I have even written a poem for you.’ ‘Stubbles are weird. They are painful. They make you look like an outcast. They never smell good. They cause bruises and this … Continue reading Poets write, stubbles don’t