Now there were two of them
Separated between thousands
of read texts and timely
chats touched by sound
but not skin  
Awake in the others sleeping
Sleeping in the others awake  
Restless as they wait
Restless as they wait

A cigarette that promises
to satisfy but turns to ash,

A nicotine addiction that
promises to be harmless
but inflicts damage,

Lungs that promise to help you breathe
but leave you gasping for air,

An "I'll always be here" that
"is never there"

A gardener that never waters his rose,
and so the rose dies without proper care.

I stay up for the moons
Quiet gaze
The light by the bedside
Carves shadows of you
Into my bare frame
The air itself is naked
Vulnerable of all scent.
I kissed you thrice,
One on the lips
For devotion,
One on the ribs of
Your teeth,
On the elbow of your
Favourite book.
As all writers do.
I created that arched frame
That pulled your
Tendons tight
To my inked sheets,
Shot you into blind space,
While I teethed on
The bow of your
Fingertips
Our skin tarmac,
There was roadworks
Of our bed.
Toes dancing morbidly
Between bursting stars
While night gulls
And ravens watched
Through the window
Waiting to peck
At the mangled carcass
Of our hearts.

We are different,
with different people.

With some, I talk in prose,
about sunsets and a world,
bigger than the one,
that I'm part of.

with some, I talk
about stilettos and matching shades,
always planning
a new escapade,
less thinking, more talk.

With some, I sit in silence
Speak only when I have something to say,
reveling in the prolonged silence

With some, I'm witty,
with some, I rap,
with some, I'm deep
With some, I act dense.

Which one of them is me?
Are these the masks that I wear?

Who am I?
and why around you,
I'm not any one of them?