Shooting Stars

It is over. The curtain falls. 
I have come to settle― 
my account with the waning moon. 

Will call you later, 
when the dawn breaks 
and sun spells out the light. 

The water has receded― 
on the beach, leaving some 
empty shells, hollowed fish 

and upturned paper boats. 
I move around the small pool, 
left by the angry sea. 

You will start commenting 
on my poems. I wanted to read 
your handwritten notes to know― 

how your mind works. 
I will not meet you again.