To my Valentine

To my Valentine
You, Sangeeta Sharma, my
True Valentine.
Love is more than—
The gold or platinum
Sold through aggressive
Ads for those seeking or
Expressing love.
It is an emotion that can
Never be commodified,
Rather it is—
Reaching out to the silent other,
Crying out silently along
With her, on moonless nights,
When bitter winds roar
On deserted streets and ruined homes,
It is sharing anguish felt like a cruel stab,
When she suddenly remembers a
Recently-deceased mother,
In far-away home that was
Left years ago,
When she was a mere teen;
She chokes, tone thick,
A grieving daughter remembers, while
Others mostly have channelized or
Erased her;
It is, love, my dear, —
Opening of the secured heavy doors,
Before your Valentine even rings the bell;
Talking to her, quietly by her side,
Busy in the humid Asian kitchen,
Preparing the hot dinner;
And, gazing lovingly,
Again,
At her tired oval face,
With long fluttering,
Black eye-lashes,
That tenderly cover a pair,
Of pure almond-eyes,
Reminding you of the young doe,
Trapped in an urban jungle,
Full of ugly predators,
Masked as friends and co-workers,
It is gently caressing her prostrate,
Worn-down body,
Like a tender mother,
When she is asleep,
And roaming in a
Free, equal,
Different world,
Where she ceases
To be, for an instant,
In a strange dream,
No unpaid
Unacknowledged
Constant care-giver
To a demanding, forgetful family.