I'm happier without you.
But, I don't write poems anymore.
At least, not of him.

To think I was quenched by the drips of a rickety faucet,
when there was the whole ocean.
Now that I'm finally here,
I will stay.

Snowflakes stuck on the window pane,
mesmerizes me every single time.
Each with its own intrinsic pattern,
like fingerprints of a thousand angels,
scattered about delicately,
in multiple shades of pearly diamond dust,
trying hard to appear abstract,
but failing to disguise the meticulous magnificence
with which they have been created,
not only restoring faith in a divine power,
but also confirming she's an artist.
But, they say it's really bad for the window.

Though I'm confident I know every inch of you by now,
I'd rather not say 'like the back of my palm',
for the familiarity is more tantamount to the air that I breath.
If I were to describe you to a sketch artist,
I would be stumped, completely lost for words.
If I were pressed I'd ponder for an eternity,
and reluctantly begin with your eyes, if pressed some more.
I would say they are dusty blue and deep, deep not in the hue
but the capacity for me to get lost in them forever.
The beard, rustic and playfully speckled in shades of crimson,
is a tug of war between a starving artist and an ancient Greek philosopher.
Freckles in-between resemble the night sky with my favourite constellation,
plus a few more stars scattered for that extra sparkle.
Those ridiculously long eye lashes completely wasted on any other man,
forcing me to restrain blinking in your presence,
so I would not miss a single time you blink,
hence witnessing third of a second of divine artistry.
You are indescribable and defining you as perfect would be an extreme misstatement,
for you are not the ultimate level of mortal physical attraction.
You are a memory, a vision and an everyday feeling,
inherent yet I relentlessly pursue and strive to own.
You could make raging atheists superstitious,
whereas for me you are salvation.  
So if I were truly pressed to describe even vaguely the way you look,
it will have to be in animated glossolalia, or resort to a quick intake of breath
followed by a wistful sigh and gazing dreamily into the abyss.
On most days I think you are my every dream,
but here you are, very real.

I wonder what we are trying to do.
Are we trying to write our love story,
or fit into the characters of one that's already written,
by just you or just me or an anonymous author or society?
Either way as it appears improvisation is not our forte
and the plot is yet to thicken.
Do we really have things in common, or
pretending to believe in the opposites attract notion?
I can see us shaving bits and bobs of ourselves off,
as usual me more than you,
and wedging mismatched corner pieces together,
almost hoping we'll some how stick, grow and evolve,
like a transplanted ***** or a candle wick in wax,
when in reality all we are is a badly in-completed puzzle.
We share a sense of brokenness and a fear of being broken,
so together we are skeptical of most things, and all people,
and hold our emotions hostage,
while using emoticons and gifs instead,
hoping if we play independent and self-love cards often enough,
we'll somehow win the hand,
when no one knows the rules of the game,
except that the stakes are really high.
Perhaps what we are doing is to see if we can walk together,
you on your side of the road and me mine,
sometimes one leading the other, and sometimes side by side.
But if neither one of us knows where we are going,
will the journey still be worth the while?

Just when the ****** I found on your bedroom floor,
was finally clarifying our relationship as casual and nothing more,
you went and blabbed about your nan.
I wish you'd stop baring random bits of your soul,
when this has been nothing but a *******,
and quit crossing the line I keep drawing in the sand.

Lying in bed cocooned by sweaty old sheets,
un-showered with last nights make up on the face,
binge watching Grey's Anatomy for the second time,
I felt more closer to you than anyone else in the world.
Isn't it ironic how the love which once made us soar,
see the world in a brand new light,
added a skip to our stride and a boost to our pride,
can bring us to our knees on a bathroom floor,
gasping for air,
for that same love was now taking our breath away,
in a humiliating, excruciating, soul ******* kind of way.
But you were only acting.
I'm not.