A phone

Soon the cloud cleared. a phone came in an evening. A poetess read the poems of desolation and contacted  the  beleaguered poet and became a friend. She phones up still and promises to be close to him, lifelong. But promises are promises, meant to be broken.....
So the Poet wrote this sonnet:-

Through Ether

Everyday I see you through your call,

And the sculptor in my abyss of inner eye

Curves your figure, your face in soft thermocol

 Look! The figurine can speak, can smile and cry.

The sculptor is lucky as he can touch her face

Can ply his finger through her boyish hair,

Can feel the lovelorn throbs above her dress

Which he could willfully untie; but that's not fair!

 Through ether only lonely bubbles contact

As we have never met nor ever shall we,

Our hands, our lips, our hearts are miles apart

Two thousand, it's as precise as one can be.

Everyday I shiver of the single thought

You telling me "It's over! I'll call you not.