Calculated love is a dangerous thing
But a necessity, sometimes
It measures the magnitude of emotions
And foresees the expiry date
Much before one traverses the realms of love,
In the realms of pain,
For deep in those pangs, love comes to rest
Yet without love, the soul is restless
It craves for a mate to call its own
Or rather to forget the 'I'
For within the precincts of 'I', lies the epiphany of love
And the root cause of suffering
That leaves one wounded for life
The wound, which is another name for life
She bares her soul and asks - if he can ever quantify her emotions
He says he can't, but he quantifies his own
A touch, a smell, a kiss - is all that she owns
And he owns the accounts of his emotions,
Of which nothing is a celebration of his beloved
His soul is bereft of love
For it was always the ‘calculated love’
Note: The poem is written in collaboration with a friend, who likes to stay anonymous. Let's call him 'T'
