There are cobwebs on the ceiling,
The tabs are running out of water,
One word rings around the house,
But the response always falters.

Reaching out like flowers growing on walls
Till they meet the next wave of drought,
All the seasons named after sandstorms,
So we cry sand on separate clouds.

Who I am might get forgotten,
Somewhere in the many folds of this desert,
A search where the troupe gives up,
So now both parties are waiting for a visit.

And the distance between doorsteps stretches,
It seems like we're heading to different time zones,
A hello mumbled in a corridor,
Deteriorates to the immediate need to be alone.

I'm looking at the stars searching for the fault,
The poison that made the horses march this slow,
Till we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere,
Unsure if our prides will allow us to further go.

You ask why I no longer write,
But how on Earth am I supposed to?
The parts you took from me were the best
that I could do

The day you slowly flew,
from the utter mess of what we were,
from me and my life,
You took what used to be a joyful soul
before the wound
of your manipulative knife,
And you left it here
to rue seeing nothing
but black and blue.

You ask why I no longer write,
But you still miss to understand;
You have taken with you my fragile arms
through your deceitful but compelling charms,

You have taken with you my sensible and thin fingers
With the way your body used to linger,
Millimeters away from mine,
just enough to make it impossible for me to live without.


And you still ask why I no longer write...