I guess you wrote me in one of those slates,

So you could rub me off when you please,

Carve me  harder if you may will!

I guess you forgot our love in those plates,

The promises you made to me as you tease,

And your hand rubbed me after the thrill!

I guess now I am just a faint mark that waits,

One with a rate and not allowed to chase,

And your girl rubbed me of with black paint with skill!

I am sure that by now, you won't do what it takes,

For those powders of me to have a vase,

So that in the course of time, I'd escape the shrill!

Even a slate shows some impression of what was written in it, but some people just erase you without a trace that you even existed.

Chaahat