I miss her
like ink misses the page
when i can't seem to think
of the right words to say .

I love her like the heavens,
and to the moon I pray,
the only wish I ever have,
that every shooting star could stay .

If there is a god of love,
how could one create
this old heart of mine
just to feel it break

...

poetry is bloodletting
for my aching hands,
brain, heart, soul, whatever.
in maroon, I see a *****,
disconnected features, details,
themes, emotion.
all useless without the right vessel.
the pages may get stained
but the Rorschach means nothing
without rhythm and image and heat
and light.

I think I understand hookups and one-night stands now.
The key to moving on is to replace until there's nothing to unravel upon.

I mean, It's fair.
I do it too.
Moment by moment,
conversation by conversation,  
I replace the replays,
and that is about as far as I'll go.
I can't bear the thought
of another touching me, like I'm not yours.

I got another ring today,
All big and loose.
Funny how I picked this one,
it keeps falling out.

It's been two months since I stopped wearing yours,
I honestly don't see a difference in the way it fits on my thumb.
That should be the end of it, but oh well, I guess it isn't.

I walked to the grocery store, paused at an aisle,
took my time frowning over chocolate bars.
You used to get me Munch, so I picked the KitKat.

I don't skip meals now, (well, most days I don't)
and in place of our routine conversations, I let a random show run in the background.

I drown noise with noise.

My days are decent.
I'm surrounded by mindless jibber jabber.
I participate.
I paste a bright smile.

“You look well now,” they say, “Well I am” I reply.

And as a matter of fact, I am fine.
9/10 times I am.

Then in a random mundane moment, memories of you resurface like a ring light and
in that single moment,
I let myself crumble.

“I don't want him back.
He isn't the same person anymore.
I'm not even me anymore.

If it's meant to be, it'll be.
He's the love of my life.
Well don't let him in,
when (not if) he comes back.

Do it from love, not for it.
You deserve happiness.
Both of you do.

You want love.
You are love.
The ocean doesn't look for its water,
Why will you look for what you have?

It is what it is.
and this too shall pass.”

So on and so forth my inner monologue goes,
and I stare at my phone wondering if I can conjure you from my thoughts.

I am kinder now. With myself, and everyone around.
I know you're proud,
and I kind of wish you'd say it to loud.

Can I possibly wrung out my favourite version of you, this time?

My thoughts swirl and I let them play.
Incantations in my head
Obligatory 3 am, weary sighs, contempt and pure rage.

Where is the calming lull of sleep, when you really need it to sedate your despair?

Resignation sets in, I play a familiar game.
I ask the universe and unbiasedly it delivers the same day.

"Universe, give me a sign, I'm really done this time.
Yellow flowers if he's coming back,
Dandelions if he's not.
Universe let me move on. This is the last time, "

In my version of He loves me, he loves me not
I break flowers, not petals.
I look for answers in colours and not action.

Forcefully, feed me this love.

No. No need to ask about my consent,
my mood,
whether I'm fine with tasting this reconnection,
whether I desire my suffering to be sweet,
salty, bitter, repulsive;
It is the love that no lover is fed into by choice.

So, ravage my core with your cruelty,
I am content; fleeing holds no allure;
Rip into my bone cage until rats seek refuge within;
until they are disheartened by rain seeping through;
Like was I.

The patient is not faulted for their ailment,
even if they induce it intentionally,
and even then, it is understandable;
For this love acts as both affliction and antidote.

It is a certain drowning, Tick Tock;
I repel rescue; no one need attempt it now;
In the days to come, no one shall be blamed for this choice.

Take me eastward until we reach the west;
There, the sun feels icy;
the breeze, refreshing;
Transport me far beyond the confines of yearning,
The confusion of longing;
Let me encounter your childhood, your aged self, and youth;
Let my wrinkles serve as your rollercoaster;
I'll bear your weight as you frolic;
And there you are; simply laughing.

Incinerate, burn, lose all our maps;
so thoughts of return dare not surface;
until regret looms, yet repentance remains elusive.

We're distanced;
and in this, lies a joy hidden from the eyes of owls;
Beyond the raucous cawing of crows;

Say that I snore;
then depart,
And leave me to harvest wheat from those hills.

If these paws could write, I would tell you thank you. For my food bowl, for the water bowl, for the treat bowl I loved ever so.

If these paws could write, they would tell you how much I loved your warm clothes from the dryer. The way you held me in your lap while I slept. I would write about how much I loved being your baby.

If these paws could write, they would write about how you saved my life and gave me a second chance. I would write unending about how I could fit in the palm of your hand, and how you gifted me with sight that I would not otherwise have had.

If these paws could write, they would tell you how grateful I am that I got to see you and to be loved by you; how wonderful to have become part of such a large family, and to be surrounded by my own kind and people that loved me.

If these paws could write, I would write you a sonnet that Shakespeare could never dream of. I would tell you how happy I was to make biscuits in your lap, and how you put up with my sharp claws that dug into you with love because I felt safe.

If these paws could write, I would write to you about how happy I am now: to be free of pain, to be able to see without any problems, and to be with my sister, brothers and nephew again.

If these paws could write, I would tell you this: do not be sad because I am gone, but be thankful that I was here. Cry if you need to, but not for too long. I understand that goodbyes are hard, but you will see me again. Don't let your heart get so heavy, that you don't let another in.

And since these paws do not write, I will say that I love you, and my last word will be the first one I said to you:

Mama.