by Nisarga Sinha Ours is a Winter love story.My messy bun,your midnight laughterandstars.I have been visitingthe stars on my terraceof late.Andthe Nebulaerupting from the dead lilacs.The heavy tinge of forgetfulnessrunning through my veinsand the evening street.Yesterday,I saw J. Alfred. Prufrockand the unfinished poemof Eliot’s oblivion,laughing together, singing what they could have been,andGoing to Bob Dylanto…