In his heart, I found a museum full of poetry.

For her you'd have massacred an entire village without a second thought.
Whereas for me, you won't even consider the idea of picking up a sword.

Your heart isn't a home for every person who seeks shelter.
Your heart isn't a piece of paper where people can sign off without saying goodbye.
Your heart isn't supposed to heal their wounds every time.
Your heart isn't a beautiful painting where people can trace it's different strokes
Please remember that your heart isn't a home for every person that knocks at your door.
Don't let them tamper with the love that you harbor.
Your heart is not made of gold. But it is full of kindness.
Your heart is not a home with a welcome mat spread right outside.
Your heart isn't a yard sale where people can trade emotions whenever they feel like.
Your heart is naive like a kid and it does not realize what is wrong and what is right.
Your heart is not a home for the person who leaves their footprints on the ground and vanishes right out of sight.

There are things that are better left unsaid; like when I asked you to leave, you left, even though the tears brimming in my eyes were begging you to stay.
When the door closed shut behind you, I had to swallow the lump down my chest, get a hold over my emotions and carry out with my daily routine without a mere mention of your name.
And then, do you know what I did at night? When the house was empty and only the moon could witness my vulnerability from the open window, I decided to let it all out. Once and for all. I cried till my cheeks started burning because of all the tears that I harshly wiped off. I wanted to torture myself so I replayed the memory of you leaving over and over again in mind. I howled in pain while clinging onto your old favorite tee shirt which I gifted to you on your last birthday.
I tried to calm myself so I brushed my fingers through my hair, like you used to whenever I was anxious. No medicine could compare to the magical power that your warm touch possessed.
And the next morning I found myself lying on the floor with a broken bottle of whiskey. The broken shards of glass seemed so appealing. But I knew self harm wasn't an option so I tried to stand up and get ready for the day. I went to work, my friends made a jib about how my hair looked funny, they had no idea that you left and it was me who had asked you to leave. I couldn't control my emotions so I left for home.
But even at home I felt homeless. I couldn't control the tears, and I cried harder than I did on the night before. My plan of not shedding another tear for you failed miserably. I opened my phone gallery and clicked on my favourite picture of yours and talked to the inanimate object. Begging and pleading you to come back.
I guess your absence is nothing but my penance. Something that I must suffer silently and all alone.

Things have changed, I'm aware of it. But I wonder, what do you feel when she calls out your name. Does your face light up like that of a child on a Christmas morning? Does your heart skip a beat when she looks at you with all the love unleashed?
Does she cook you your favorite meal on Saturday mornings? A loaf of bread with a sunny side up and some bacon and fries?
Do you look at her with the same intense passion with which you looked at me?
I remember how I used to get weak in the knees whenever you kissed me. Does she react the same way?
Does she call you lover or babe, or does she, just like me, calls you by some funny nickname? Does she hold your hand like a child that is learning to walk for the first time? Does she play you her favorite songs on the guitar every night to help you fall asleep? I know I used to do that, and also I know that highway to hell doesn't really work as a lullaby. But you used to look at me with so much of love and joy. I wonder if you look at her the same way. Does she cry when a dog in some movie dies? Does she enjoy watching horror movies at night? Does she surprise you the way I used to? Placing sticky notes on the wall, and leaving love notes next to your pillowcase.
Does she write your name in the form of poetry? I doubt that. Because once you've been loved by a writer, you won't chase someone who is fascinated by the written word.
The thoughts that reached my pen, they escape from her lips everyday. And it's funny, that it is exactly what took you away.

She died because of the bleeding wounds that were caused by his callous words.