Scotch in my Fudge

Time does flow in spurts, and in spurts do we talk
Your silence for days after my chock-a-block

Your wonderment for my poetic libations
And your jaunty sass at my labored flirtations

Your trotting the globe, and my following suit
Your New York-y poise to my Indian repute

It's been 8 long years, and I haven't your trace
I haven't your voice, no name to your face

So right this, should we not, shouldn't we make some plan?
Let's meet up in Christmas, December or Jan?