I.
Your presence beamed like the moonlight it ought to be
Your spell wandered
Hugging trees and blessing pavements
And I let thou love grow within me

I had nothing to say to thee
All love, all glamour
Perfections to imperfections
All reeking of positivity

We chased and soared with the wind
Braving it then and there, we were a team
And deeper I fell
In a trap I wouldn’t know even after years

II.
The peaks are o’er
The tides have changed
An infinity of reasons, another after another
Confusion made us insane

Apologies have piled on top of each other
Despite, we beseeched our love to stay
O, Dear, we thought we’re unbreakable
Yet the hurricane consumed us in every way

Benches and cushions
Of where we sat upon our confessions
And there, calmly, we bid our goodbyes
As there were no amendments, no resolutions

III.
O my Love, how did thee become a stranger
Art what they spew out be true?
That our love is ‘posed be questioned
All these years, these years that have gone through

But we know, I ought we know
That we have loved so dearly
Yet the wick has burnt
Until it’s time to let things be

I make funny faces on my own
As a distraction to my ****** flesh
From creating a wrinkly wretched face
Or to make a whiny weeping sound
Like of a moaning mammal

**** feelings and that crippled creature!
Though tonight passes as a surmountable story
This reaction from a minute moment
Woke the bewildered Bukowski in me
Oh God no, am I a lifeless laughingstock?

Some days your mind floats like dandelions,
wandering aimlessly
on and on.

Like magic,
like dust,
like time you cannot touch–
you are lost in your universe
crushing dreams and unweaving expectations

Until suddenly,
gravity pulls you back
into your sheets.

Your eyes,
hostaged in reality,
come back in its consciousness

You wake up,
let a tear drop,
and feel bad for breathing.

I’m aching. And though I have admitted this to myself a gazillion times over; I’m aching. I’m aching because I am aware, and I have not done anything to stop the ache myself.

I’m aching, ultimately because I have accepted my defeat. And as I reason myself out, I’m also limited. I can’t drag myself further knowing I have already made a stop on me, that I have given up. That I have completely surrendered my days on what has always been plotted out. My drive has turned somewhere else and like me, it has lost its direction.

So, I ache. Every day. Every passing moment.



―a.t.

what are love letters for if permanent ink
doesn't entail candor
nor draws sight of the future?
but only the mere fleeting moment
of when the letter was composed?

what are love letters for if
metaphors don't suffice
and mind you,
words aren't her weakness,
despite

what are love letters for if
feelings are fleeting
flickery and
always changing
but never ices an ending

it's nothing but a sonata of promises
vows, and oaths
of I love yous
and gorgeous penmanship

of lads desperate
for love
that worships

―a.t.

The redness on your arms. Your roughly patched skin.
Your soft black hair I used to push back.
And the cold skin on the sides of your chest, the parts I used to trace.

Your neck. Ugh, your neck. Where I used to bury my face.
And your smell that comes with it.
Your stubby fingers and your wide palms. The spaces between them. I miss those parts.

The back of your ears, those soft muscles I used to caress.
And your imperfectly shaped brows, those that I brush with my thumb. I miss those parts.

And your lips. Of course.
Those plump lips that used to touch mine.
I miss those.

Except you.
I don’t miss you.

God, I’d rather ****!

―a.t.