Why
do you
always
make
misery
my
normal?

I bought an expensive bind of pages to write my thoughts in.
But the words prefer to fit at the back of my hand,
at the margins of my books,
at the most random places
and hideous cases
- all characters prefer
to rest atop all ironic spaces
- each word calling every piece of missing touch,
each word wanting to compensate
for the oozing weight of not having much.

You’re not even a disease.
But ****,
did you **** me well.

You are the feast
in all of my verses.
Seen in every letter.
Bold in every word.
You reign worlds
between my ink and paper,
and a galaxy on my typewriter-
But all these, you'll never know-
not a breath from me,
not a scrap of my soul.

You
are
my
only
understanding
of
the
world.

Our story,
this story-
will take time.
Like reading a book
from chapter one,
it'll take time.
And I am
not a fan of waiting-

but God,
I will let it.

Seldom will you ever find a friend who will sit with you in your silence, one who may or may not understand but still- he or she, will sit with you in your silence.

As if the world has sum itself up into a second of a minute where all being has forgotten what it means to speak; as if all that every one knows is to listen

To the silence.

As if words have set themselves free of all of us human beings; that we have become strangers to them- words.

Silence.

Seldom will you ever find silence as you sit with a friend. Seldom may a friend understand.

But too often, silence who is a stranger to the words, listens. And my God, how it understands.

Some days,
I wish I could ride away
And be one of those
Strange disappearances.
What a vivid of a “some days”
This night is.

I look at the dark sky,
tonight,
convinced,
I think,
that the stars
are gazing
right back
at me.

I see that your side of our closet
has gone blank.
And I,
I do not know
what to do with these walls
full of our photographs.

But we are all
meant to die.
And your heart, all of ours
  will never
live beyond us.
It will never pursue
or chase or recognize
love
without us.
And so
the kind of eternity
or forever or immortality
that
we all lust for
is meant to lose its breaths
whenever, wherever
we lose ourselves.

I've been through a couple
of motorcycle accidents-
breaking my ankles,
bruising my rib,
putting my flesh into
giant assaults of hurting.

I've been pinned down
by horrendous silver needles
on cheap hospital beds
for times I have lost count on.

All of these and more,
were like nightmares
and they still are.
All of these and more,
were sickening phases of agony
I don't even want to remember.

But,
on how is it that each of those ache
resembles the echoes of your Goodbye?
I don't know.
I wish not to know.

I have never been sick enough to die,
before you.
I have never been in an accident
more disastrous,
than you are.

I remember
one of those nights,
right before you rang
at my door,
when I used to call
writing
a chore.

If you ever wonder
how deeply
I feel for you-
Know that
I am shaken enough
by the depth
of whatever doom
I have fallen to-
with bruises clinging to me
as tattoos-
with hurt breaking me
like bones-

I remained
a bud,
a pup,
a mere silhouette
of the imaginary.
I limit
the heights
that can be
conquered by my grasp.
Oh,
how I stopped growing
to stay
in love.

Is it the tide of people on the narrow pavement
the subtle stir of air, the strange claim of gravity,
Or some anonymous density resting atop the lights?
If not, tell me-
To whom do I owe your soul this night?

Have you already felt
the absence of light-
Without blinking,
Without closing
your eyes?

Perhaps,
it’s not the cold
that you hate,
but
the absence
of the warmth
of
a certain somebody.

And you are the only kind of stranger
to ever surpass a friend,
but one to lurk far,
so far,
behind a lover.

I can never
really complain
of being hurt
when I know
that
we both are.
Instead,
I can only ask --
"What have we done to each other?"

What now?
- now that
we have grown
smarter,
wiser,
and
irrevocably
out
of each other?

Unwittingly,
we all just wanted to be loved.
From our births
to the moment we become one of the antiques,
one thing will remain amidst our constantly changing nature- and that is our want to love and to be loved in return.
It may have been the fault of the romantics for engraving the idea of love into the air,
or it maybe an inherent bone of our very nature, or perhaps an idea bestowed from the womb of our mothers.
Some have forgotten, or at least claim to have forgotten, love.
Little do they know that it exists right at the core of our reason and sometimes it thrives within our passions and dreams.
Some have the ability to see it with their naked eyes.
Some claim it lives through the warmth of another person.
Some believe it sits on the grave of another. Some use it as their shadow and yes, recognize it as demons too.
It’s everywhere, for sure.
But most, if not all, still crave for it.
Most claimed to have been failed by it.
There seem to be an overwhelming absence of love in the very universe that made it.

Why is that so?