The Luncheon

Do you remember that afternoon we were all sitting on the floor in a shapeless circle, sharing the contents of our lunch boxes?
I wasn't particularly hungry then. I ate only because i wanted to sit by you.
Do you remember that question we were discussing? And your answer. I remember it. And i wished then that i was that girl. I still wish it.
Do you remember my reply?
I spoke about someone else. Something else. 
It got me thinking - have i ever done anything sweet for you?
I couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer to it that afternoon.
Today, i think of it again. 
Today, I have an answer.
And this - is it.
Poetry. 

I remembered the lines i had written for you - on sultry afternoons and rainy evenings.
The words i had read out to you in the wee hours of the night.
The words that seemed so effortless - that they almost took me by surprise.
I hadn't attempted verse in seven years.
I had almost given up on prose as well.
And then you happened.

No, you weren't a gust of wind.
Neither were you the stormy rain.
You were more the quiet drizzle, the gentle August breeze.
That blows softly all over you - just when the drops of sweat are about to trickle down your forehead.
You made me a poet - again. 

And though we know so much of each other
That our farts and burps have ceased to cause shame
I still feel conscious now, as i type out these words
A strange consciousness that comes not from being watched but from the prospect of being read.
Do you like my words?
Do you find my poetry poetic enough?
Or should i stick to prose.
Should i simply say - I love you.
For i really do.