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.