Just as twilight covers a sleeping bridge, with its overwhelming lustre, bit-by-bit; insomnia hits me hard, grows on me, inch-by-inch. and I pass hours, days, months & years, each single night. It creeps from under my two heavy pillows, and from beneath the aches of my tired torso, and from throbbing, drumbeating temples, to ask one crushing question- “Who will leave now? Who will leave?” Covered in a fervent loop, sleep acts like a blurred labyrinth, difficult to look at. so I fill the silence with some random thoughts- like, his love for cauliflower, her rendezvous with coffee, and few other sundries, which are as unimportant as this night! So I picture- there’s that misty smell, some freshly cut grass, some music- Scubert’s piano perhaps. I sense all this and pat myself to sleep, just when, the Question with ten legs again stings my breast- “Who will leave now?" He asks, "Who will leave?” Perhaps this very thought, seizes my forty winks