On reading Jerry Pinto's translation of Sachin Kundalkar

No
I don't
have you

but sometimes
I have the exact descriptions
of how I feel without you
and that ought to count
for something.

No reading or writing is
no where close to love
but it breaks breath
just the same,
and some lines
are just as hard,
some, as light,

and yes
the guy that I write about
is not much like
you, when you were here,
or how you must be now,
but
that's
not
because
I am some doe-eyed-mush-monster,
making you sound better
than you were, but because
memory's a crafty-ass thing,
filigreeing the past, some bits
refuse to go, some turn into a blur,
and as it is - I'm not lying -
you were damn sweet, when you were.