A poem was always supposed to heal, or to help; at least in a way or another.
But this time is different, not even Rumi can do the work.
My mind is in a blank state-it has shut down.
With a trembling body and shaking wrists
Stealing glances and guilty kisses
Amongst each panic attack I drive through
I sense your sighs and get charged
Then see your phone screen and drop down
My nerves are threads ablaze
She has bigger eyes, her body is steady and so are her wrists
But she does not admire that surgical scar of yours
I seek refuge in it and that's the problem, I guess
She claims ownership, it is her right after all
She is priority
You write her name on every bill board
And I hold the ladder for you
You are writing my death note, you know
But these matters are small
For your phone screen will still glow
With messages that will make you grin
She demands ownership, it is her right after all
As I fight Gods to get those grains of sand you once stepped on
But she is priority, she is royalty.
This is not a poem, it is a tribute
To the time when I breathed you in and you breathed me out
We could have breathed forever
But my cells are attacking one another
And my mind is in a blank state
I have already mentioned that
But you see, I can not hold that ladder anymore
And I am in no state at all
Not one of priority - obviously.

I shall embalm the stars and hang them at your girdle,
There where pansies lie; free and mobile.
And I shall dress you in mountains,
Hoping that immortality and rise;
Would profoundly suffice.
But I don't have the means to do
What my senses inspire me to.
Thus, allow me to write you
In words more naked than flesh
With blood-drops; raw and grandiose.
Allow me to embellish the linings of your skin
With sacred letters and ambiguous hints.
I will meet you one day
At dawn or morn,
And we will foresee our radiant yore.
To the one I deeply venerate,
To whom my affection is inordinate.

It roams the streets,
That archaic figure - unaware of that voyage.
It is skinned, a little pale perhaps.
Seeking a beacon, a red light.
Amongst the people.
They are numbers.
They never tend to amaze me.
But there is something difficult to comprehend about that flesh; that tongue; the earthly scent of your mouth.
I roam the streets; how finite that voyage seems.
Your hometown; your current workplace.
They are not real, they are not you.
However, I am you - your keen countenance; the inked unsolvable equation.
It is jubilant - clutching your skin like a saviour.
Prepare your dirge,
Prepare the pansies.
My bones are leaving; my fingernails - weakening.
I am perilous by too much soul.
By the smoke that is reaching out.
My last forlorn attempt is not foreseeable.
*Find me before I find myself.

Eight months since I have seen
Green oak trees and glowing kites
Pale blue skies and star-crowded nights

Eight are the layers of pain
that have not seen any light
Eight are the loaded pistols of nostalgia
stacked on my shoulders

What is Eight?
To some; legs of a spider or that of an octopus
But Eight is the number printed on your football jersey

Maybe Eight are the cookies in that rusty jar;
But Eight is the day
of the eighth month
when you followed my paths

When the cold breeze hits me
as I smoke my eighth cigarette
and travel back in time
to when I rose in your love
up to the eighth sky

a rainbow of seven fears hit me by
and a force of friction dragged me back
to fall back in love with you
deep into eighth ground

*To the Eight I've always favored
I bitterly make a toast
Here's to the only number
that now I loathe the most

I shall write
But my papers can not endure the spilling blood
Seven months have passed since I last saw your face
The two steps that separated us
Are now replaced by a thousand miles
and I stand like a handicapped

I shall wait
When waiting is a sin
And death might lie behind my curtain

You will live
You will live
You will live on

My poetry will be your home
The letters will embrace you
You will live and thrive between the arms of my syllables
And my tears shall put you to sleep

You will be read
You will be read between the lines
You will be read in my lousy handwriting
You will be read in my failed attempts

and you will be seen
You will be seen in the color of my hair
you will be seen in all the black I wear

you will be heard
you will be heard in the songs on my playlist
you will be heard in my choice of words
and you will be heard, always, for you are the sacred name I swear by

Do not be afraid, my love
I will survive on the remains of the electric sparks you left in my system

I will stand as tall
as the mountain you dress in
and I will strive
to keep your memory aglow

But you will always
remember me
And I shall always
Keep you alive

I turn and burn
for my flames to keep you warm

and I welcome the bullets of distance
just to shield you from harm

for you I would walk
on water and on any sky

to sprinkle stars above your roof
and quench any weakening thirst