I
Is made of the cursive
Writing in my torn chemistry notebook
And the feathers that flew out of
The pillow fight we had in the midnight,
I
Is made of the little glow-in-the-dark
Stars on the ceiling and
The dry apricots that die (again) in
My stomach everyday
I
Is loved by the lazy strands of hair that kiss
My face and the old, faithful watch that always
Reminds that time needs respect- and will have it,
I
Is native to the cozy bathroom where
It is easy to doze off in the early morning
And to the annoying alarm clock that
Kills pretty and ugly dreams alike,
I
Banks on the courage that only a thick
Bar of snickers can confer and
On the last crumbs of chocolate that are
Clung on to, always, like a thread of hope,
I
Is stuffed like an obese teddy bear gifted
On my fifth birthday, with all the world
Its subtle virtues and sardonic viciousness,
Packed tightly inside a 48-kilo mass,
I
Is completed by the incomplete sentences
In our private conversations on paper chit
Later crafted into a rocket and flown in class and
Out-standing detention we received after that,
I
Therefore runs only on
The super-batteries of memories,
Quaint trivialities and the other I’s-
By itself, it’s just
Another lanky
Little alphabet