Why, all of a sudden, do I feel so cold now?
It's hardly been an hour since you left.

Do you go back and trace those letters reeking of your lost love, lost hope, lost years?
Trace, without touching, that is. Never touching. Because how can you? They are as unreachable as are the skies. (And the skies you can still see every night.)

You haunt me.
You sure as hell haunt me.
I look back and only see fragments of broken glass
Memories reflecting from them, refracting
Rays here and there, already everywhere
My eyes are blinding
My feet are already covered in blood
I thought I had come a long way but
It seems like I am standing at the same spot after all
These shards won't leave
These rays won't stop touching
You won't go
You just don't go

you are where i return to,
after everything, when it gets tiring
when i've thought about you too much,
i return to thinking of you. it gives me peace.

"One day you will make one hell of a heartbreaker!" she told you.
You laughed that clinking-bells laugh of yours, blurring the world with heaven's sigh.
Then you whispered something in her ear and left her smiling too.

You did make one hell of a heartbreaker, sweety.
But it was more hell than heart,
More tumult than treasure.
It was more vomits out of sheer extremity of sadness,
tears out of mere helplessness.
It was more blood than poetry,
More distrust than sanity.

You have already won that compliment, my tormentor,
Wish you'd never struggle more.

I need you more than ever today

You have never been this far

who came to help you pick yourself up
when life weighed you down
in the end, it's only this that matters

I am rude with her
I am always rude with her, she says
Why can't I talk like a normal person?
What is my problem?
Oh God.
I am rude with her, she says.
I don't get why I would be,
Either.
It's just that sometimes when life
hits me hard, like really badly,
and I decide to pour a part into
someone else, a friend, for example
by just sharing,
by just saying,
to just minimize a bit of my insanity;
I can't.
I try talking but I stop midway because I realize that I can't.
I can't share things with you or her or them.
No one. I can't!
So it's not like I can't talk normally with you
I do want to
I do try to, (and mostly it's just me trying anyway)
But it's this that I
Don't feel normal anymore!

Honestly, sometimes I think we are all sad.
It hurts everywhere.
Some hide it behind their half-rimmed thick glasses from which
Their eyes seem too distant
An Okay Facade.
Some others comb it in-between their hair,
Oil it to the scalp.
Lovers put it in the creases of the bed-sheets, stuff it in, but the white turns red
Colors don't lie.
You at times name it Frustration, some days you say Just Tired
Can't Hold, Oh It's Nothing
Oh, it's nothing. For sure.

Sometimes I think it's really nothing. And that is eating each one of us.

I wasn't asked if I'd like to be born to these parents
in this household or society
whether or not I could gladly shout patriotic slogans for this land
and celebrate its victories, cry on its shredding shroud
get defensive for these principles
prostrating before the Allah I found nearby
But I was given a choice to love you
and I failed myself and all of us, miserably there

My previous sentence
Rubbed every trace
Of the next one I was going to create.

Once what I loved
Comes now suppressing me

My feet are stuck
In a slimy mud of languages
I push my hands
Splash, splash it goes:
All the dirt is now over my shirt

I take off my shirt
And imagine basking in glory
But nakedness is for artists
And I am without words

Enduring is not the key.
Then what is?

I am so tired
of all this ****,
says everyone.

Yet nobody stands
and leaves from the door.

We all enjoy
the view
of ourselves being eaten
by sadness.

This pain is too familiar.

Is it bad that I went back to have a glimpse of you,
lover lost in haze and days,
and got myself this deep knot tightening every minute?

Is it bad that I miss you without loving you

I don't understand why
we got nights with 2:40 and 3 a.ms
and hands that yearn to touch the same faraway star.

Do you really think I care?—The purple blanket of night
drops ever so regally, meticulous its stance
over every dark heart you've created onto this very vulnerable skin
every single time
scars hide, and so does light—Do you really think I pine - and only pine - always when you leave?

how do you help obsessions? what when you get addictions?

what if I am addicted to the taste of silver in my mouth,
the burning wound

what if I am obsessed with your memory; the face, the voice?

what do I do?

adopted by the moon,
taken care of by the mom gods,
she was fed honey and grass,
green air, golden pistachios
and milk white in the mornings.

time flew by as she swung on swings carried by the sun and twelve planets
and one fine day
grew into an absolute goddess
the celestial princess
crowned by the lord of lords
and also
got her heart first broken
then ruined
by the lord of lords himself.

It's extremely painful to not be able to not miss you
I miss you so many times in a day it leaves me less
and lesser will to live.

Do I cause you pain?
Good. Because it's been a long wait.

i miss you without wanting to
i write words after words because that's all i can do
in our distancing was a calamity that had set my heart on fire
in my pining is the pain that is turning me to ashes.

Oh no you don't care
Of course you don't care.
My demons are mine
My fights are mine
My wounds are mine.
You don't care, of course you don't
And why would you?
And why should you?
**This my own battle
and I am going to lose it
myself.

White noise
doesn't help me block out echoes of your lies
the color of your laughter

I haven't as yet deleted your number. I sometimes open your chat window and the last time we talked blinks as an old, old date. Reminding me every time how it's not the time to still stay. That I should move on much like you did, but then you never cared enough in the first place.

I miss you a little because you left a part of yourself here. I told you I would miss you and I wasn't wrong. One thing I'm especially proud of is never claiming false love or promising you lands I couldn't ever let you enter. But you did that, and I hope someday guilt eats at you.

You lied about love!

What is it with 3 A.M.
And memories?*

Heartbreaks hang like tassels
stitched on the fabric of my ever so weary heart
Red drips. Blips. Falls with the sound of a nail-scratch.

I could paint black and red and pink and glittery golden all over my face
and hands, and arms, and *******
and then spit painty ***** to see it turn into a galaxy
I could cut open my veins
and add flow to the piece
and I could maybe then attract
everyone else to admire this art.

My browser says I searched for you but that's not true
I only searched for a missing piece, one that was to stay but say,
It just went away.

"It is June. I am tired of being brave."
--Anne Sexton, The Truth The Dead Know.

I checked on you regularly to maybe just know that you were there somewhere... it wasn't out of love, or curiosity, or even obsession. I just kinda missed you on occasions but not with the idea to want you back. Because I wouldn't ever want you back, or the agony, or the deep, harrowing experience of every deeply harrowing emotion ever. And still I have only half moved on. Because I see you and it means to me. I never show, you'd never know, but something still matters whether or not I want it to.
I don't want it to.

I come here to distract myself
To get caught in the labyrinthine hollows
So I won't have to question myself:
When will you return? And why you left.

times like these
when everything around you asks
for a step forward. up. come... believe.

and all you want to do is go back, back, back to where your heart pulls
where doubts live
but with the safety of your undeniable love.

when a writer dies,
only twenty-six attend his funeral
and poems cry.

H  e  l  p
it said on the Google search page open
a cursor still blinking, blinking still
but her life already ended
no more electrocardiozags
no more hope, no pain, screech of desperate despair

A bit of sadness and a pinch of sorrow

Insecure heart, soul pained until tomorrow.

Think about the one person that wasn't there.

Don't hope. **** hope: the baby that cries and wakes you every now and then.

Don't wait.
Don't let your heart burn for a friend who herself disappeared in the crowd for 'until next time'.

Don't let anyone
Ruin
Your short life!

the melodies only your heart can create
so just your soul can sing
and everybody . . . everybody in this wide, wide world can hear
with a sense of oneness: because they can all relate

but when you go there, you say so boldly,
"I am not afraid, it can't hurt me no more!"
and when you return, you are always trembling
and you never can see me in the eye. why?
why do you go there - that eerie house of yesteryear
where hopes broke, where dreams shattered,
where love was walked upon?
why do you go there - where evil laughter still roars
empty rooms scream silence, windows rattle like teeth chattering on the rainy night he left you.
why do you give yourself that pain, always and again?

people so passionate,
their hearts thrumming against their chests
as new ideas play their flutes
and the visions of their imagined golden outcomes
lift their feet to the skies.
dreams
gleam in their eyes
and words fall from their mouths so easily: the earth is their pillow.
they need not fear the world because the world fears them.
while i,
on the other end,
put my head on my knees and cry by the unknowing river
because the butterfly i had once sheltered in the cave of my stomach
has died of dark and doesn’t flutter.

I am writing stories about you. And poems. Lots and lots of poems.
I am filling words with fantastical versions of love so people won't see how broken I am.
My characters dance.
Their laughter echoes throughout the book.
But here, look at my heart:
One big wound; blistering blood.

Thoughts like flashlights running everywhere
All I want is a piece of soothing night.

You are a tight ache pulling at my heart every now and then
You never go away... even after all this time.

We will keep wanting each other
but never say
and live like that
but never live.

Suffering is yellow in color
It hurts your eyes
And ails your heart.

I don't think you get it. I am suffering every moment.
I miss you more than you do.

*Do you even?

I wish you hadn't done what you did so I wouldn't have had to face what I did.
It's not normal to keep piling things inside and not say,
when all you want to do very much
is say: This is it.
This and that and everything else. I can't believe I am turning mad.

I've been making mistakes.
I don't know why, or how, or how not to
But I know I've been messing with everything I say
- or a lot of things I say
I think I don't always want to blame myself because it's always two to make it weird
But I also know well that you don't have to put up with the phase I'm going through
Which you do
And I'm thankful and sorry and I'm not so okay

Somedays we are all the same: silent spectators of our own lost states.
Missing the exact pieces we were supposed to let go off, long ago!
Trying again, and then not trying, and trying again to reach at least somewhere.

Trying again and then not trying.
Somewhere, perhaps someday.

How much of sadness is it possible to contain?

I ask myself and ask again, while it keeps filling within.

my phone never slept this month and last
because hope said so.