I lost a part of myself
The day you walked away from me.
The part that loved,
The part that felt.

I used to love the bay where we watched the sunset,
now it's polluted with
sickly sweet people with their hands intertwined
with people they think they love.

We used to listen to John Mayer on the stereo
every night before we sleep,
I traced endless patterns on you bare chest,
your fingers tangled in my messy curls,
now I hate his songs because they remind of you,
so and so that they make me cry.

You used to take me to long drives
in midnight,
now you made me an insomniac who
wants nothing to do with the midnight
because it's when memories of you haunt me.

You took from me
A part I'm never getting back,
A part that took more than half of my being.
Because now I realized,
once you were gone,
I was also gone.

Every dot takes a space
millions of dots can make
a straight line
or can create an arbitrary path

Where we are traveling
that can make life simple
or can draw a circle
that turns you again
to your home

Or an uneven line
that creates a sway
where the river moves   
but can't say that
there was no space
before the big bang

Each word has a pour
that impact could be
low or loud  
but some words can make
a metaphor
a poem

Can catch happiness
or sadness
can art an imagery
of nature
life

Or a thought
that can make an illusion
or a fusion between
the love and the hope
that we perches into our soul

Every bits of sound holds an emotion
thousands of bits make a rhythm
that can build a song
whether it's a song of joy

Or sad
or a true loop
that never terminate
thee love of  

Or a rebel tune
that makes a struggle
for the independence
which can make an eternal
freedom song!

Little by little,
The colors of the fair are going to finish
One day,
It will be the end
  Of all the vagary

Slow decay of the days
This known Spring afternoon
  Turn to be fading
  Tired
Going to be end

Who has left thy love
Thy hide all secrets in the heart
Days have lost within the days
Getting the path between the path

On what hope,
Loved to Back
And what means
   The life
   Family
Two days of this world
  One day you come
  One day you go
Know the hearts who are loving
   Singing
   Going

On what for her mind cry
She who left her mind
In half of the way
How She grabs all the demands!
Whatever words She departed
In the Songs of despair

So Mind Say
Who is where
Who is for whom
Thy know
Not Anybody else
Passing the every moment
   Alienating  
   Loveless
   Mysterious

Such a colorful world
   Growing
   Glittering  
But this known Spring afternoon
  Turn to be fading
  Tired
Slow decay of the days
Growing to fade your face
Going to be End

@Musfiq us shaleheen

see, astronauts need a certain amount
of pressure
surrounding their space suit
else their body boils

and this is exactly what it feels like at 2:34 in the afternoon when i am too sad to pass my mathematics exam but too anxious to fail it, this is exactly what it feels like when i have gone too long without talking to you because for some reason my brain is always conducting experiments on itself. i mean i am superheating in here, its all just so noisy and so silent at the same time, i mean, this morning i woke up to eat/dont eat and get out of bed/why are you still here and when im around you and when you touch me, i forget when i was so upset about and

i was always told  not to rely on another person for my happiness but you are the spacesuit applying just enough pressure from outside so the insides of me stayed safe and warm instead of constantly ready to blow a fuse

you calm me, you are my centre and my gravity. and i sorry thats asking for so much.

This heart has been
The smallest boy in the
Schoolyard.

Picked on, punched.
Called names, pointed at
With raw laughter of the

Cruel, cruel kind.
Grew skin as solid as its
Ability to draw

Lines, and stand for them.
I will not accept.
Sometimes pulse

Is the heart
Beating
Back.

I play blind.
Take you in with other
Senses.

Read your every line with my
Fingers, taste your
Sweet salt,

Smell the cotton and sleep
That held you, before I
Woke you up with

Hands and whispered kisses,
Craving to hold you
Myself.

I love you in
Moonlight. I love
You.

Your scents and flavours.
Your heartbeat escapes like
Poetry from your ribcage.

I picture them in a balmy hallway,
far-corner huddled; quietly, urgently
comparing their notes on ways I have loved.

They'll laugh at lame jokes and avoid eye contact,
each surprised by their own awkwardness.
One of them will quip the term
'eskimo brother'
and immediately wish he hadn't.
The rest will kindly ignore it.
The moment will pass.

They will slowly shed their discomfort.
They will remove their coats.
Sweat will bloom at collars
and trace knotty bumps of spine before
pooling into the space between
boxers and belt.

They won't openly discuss the
strange comradery
that accompanies the lazy river evenings spent drifting down the same mind-
but the tension pulling across
each of their jaws
will announce loud and clear
how frustrating it has
been to be cropped,
tucked in, paper fortune teller folded
and wrapped up into someone else’s idea of poetry.


Casually
then all at once,
they will get started.
Printed pages will uncoil from backpacks,
phones will emerge from pockets
and fingers slightly shaking
will chase the letters
of my name through search engines.

My sticky poems will fan out across floorboards.
They will lower their bodies carefully, not quite kneeling,
(and without mention of the bad knees they happen to share.)
They'll hover above each piece of evidence
and their eyes will crash along titles and memories-
they'll read with raised
eyebrows and pretend as if
they don't already know
each poem, each quick dig, by heart.

When they start claiming
and denying pieces
they will do so lightly
and without judgment.
'This piece is about you and the dry, delicate
tissue-shell of skin
she held out for you after you told
her to shed.
But this piece- this piece is about me
and the messy ointment
that ruined her clothes and
stained her blankets.
A doctor instructed she
apply the ointment to her hands
twice a day to treat
the burns my silence left
across her arms and throat.'

They will share a bit of rage,
A bit of regret.
A bit of shame, perhaps.
They will either miss me intensely
or not at all.
They will either own up
to the poems they begat
or begin refuting.
They don’t want any of
this chilly weight on their soul.
I understand.

They didn’t sign up for this, I know that.
They didn’t set out to rock me,
nor to dig down deep and get to my China.
I was happy to share, to whisper and recite blurry
morning confessions and epiphanies.
I was right behind them running toward the sand dunes,
waving a shovel and pail.
But I can’t feel bad either.
You all must have known:

If you happen to fall for a girl
who writes you must realize
that every smile you put on her face,
every stray hair you’ve pushed back from her eyes,
and quick habit she starts to crave
is fair game.

If a girl who writes happens to fall for you too--
forget it.
You will find echoes of the way your souls fit and fought
together until she has nothing left to feel on the subject;
(and you must be well aware
she's tidal, her feelings are icecaps,
they are melting but will trickle fresh
and renewed for centuries to come.)