You look like Kapil

It was a Sunday afternoon in a coffee shop

I was flipping a poetry book by Robert Herrick,

sipping americano

Reading and reminiscing my yesterlove,

and dwelling in the memories of yore.

A man in a powder blue cotton shirt sat across me with a coffee and a book probably compiled by some Russian author.

I briefly gazed at him because his fragrance seemed familiar

His hair,

His hair was shining like a moonlight,

mostly black with a hint of silver

just like Kapil’s.

And his complexion was a shade deeper than tan.

I gazed at his face, his eyebrows curved, perhaps he was trying to understand the literature

And there was a faint mole at the centre of his forehead,

I was stunned by the resemblance,

He caught me staring at him.

I smiled and whispered ‘You look like Kapil.’

I know I shouldn't have said that to a stranger

When it could just mean that I look for Kapil or just a part of him, in everyone I come across.

And it's not my fault.

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