Lizzy Bennet

Almost Victorian how we 

meet, Lizzy Bennet. Civilities

dictated by Whimsical Worlds;

words groping for letters

from the future. 

Almost Victorian how we

meet, Lizzy Bennet.

Two autumns past, the 

last time we had

seen each other's ink-

stained epitaphs.

Two autumns past, our

last bodily contact permitted, 

allowed, avowed by the 

socially sacrosanct rulebook.

You had your Mr Collins

back then, and a certain 

Fitzwilliam in your head.

And I with Bingley's 

Sister. All of Netherfield's

Balls stacked together however

couldn't make up for

what you had taken

away, Lizzy Bennet.

And I know for

sure that I can

never be your Darcy,

for my existence is

beyond these pages, trailing

lightly behind your chaise

in the last coach

of the first metro.

I'm leaving, running away,

Lizzy Bennet.

For another autumn, till

this world, your Victorian

Delhi allows me to 

enter again.

And I know I

shall be allowed to

know about what it

takes to be your

Darcy.

And then of course

It'll be your turn

to shun me, to 

turn me away.

And then there will

not be a volume- II.

For autumns don't last

forever And I, again

would understand that nothing

changes ever.

This is not a love poem,

Lizzy Bennet.

It's an ode to

your permanence and a travesty

of my insignificance. For 

who am I to

own you in my

thoughts.

Farewell,

Lizzy Bennet,

Till you hear my 

chaise again, coming for

your window, draped in

dead lilies.