I can still remember your voice,
Fragmented as though refracted through a prism
I remember pressing delete on the last voicemail you ever sent me,
You called to thank me for the flowers,
You called me thoughtful, sweet,
You were tripping over your words with joy,
And I couldn't handle it after you left,
Because your voice reminds me of symphonies and plane crashes
And oh God, how it still echoes sometimes,
Like the sound of a child's laughter ringing across an abandoned playground,
Your voice resonated with the frequencies of my heart strings,
And now I fear it would only cause earthquakes

The first time in my life, I start turning the lens back into the dreams. Point the telescope a full 180 away from the moon, so the moon can see a **** good closeup of the craters on my face.
I go to sleep
                                         asking for it.

My dearest demons, tear me apart. I am ready to die. I have done everything I could...

And here you come:
                                   traipsing down the stairway to heaven, stepping extra hard
on the creaky ones.

I think it reminds you of the way I used to whine for you.

To you. My dear. MY dear.
                                              Help me God, I whisper into your ear as you     sleep,
                                              Hoping you would wake up in my dreams and save me,
                                              How the hell could a person ever feel so ******* weak.

A bitter branch, that wanted to be a tree trunk. That tried to become enormous.
That only got cut down in the end.

That's how I feel. Not what I am.
Part of the poem, not of the slam.
Separate worlds inside one room.
Wanting to capture the flower in bloom.

Enormous tree, watered regularly by the gardening company hired by the     CEO
of the real-estate company.

The only company I really have in this lonely lake of scheduled sprinklers
are gardeners giving me much more than thanks.

They cut my branches. My unsightly twigs are mulched. I share my tears with them. They take a lunch break. We're going pretty steady.
Day in. Day out. Day in. Day out. Tick tock. Lub Lub. Goodnight. Help-

///
If I may not be wrong
even it is true
that everything is not for me at all
but when sometimes Camellia called me
I felt all loves were for me
and I thought
me for love
love for mine
and it grew my dream

If I may not be wrong
even it is true
that every Autumn will not be
played with my wish
when truly I felt that the Rose never withered
but it grew gray
and my dreams went away

If I may not be wrong
even it is true
that every hope will not be
staying tuned forever
In my springtime when kite flew in the blue sky
and it felt me as the bird's feather
the sky turned colored
it grew in my dream again

If I may not be wrong
even it is true
that every love is a real love
and when you told me that
you will be with me forever
the red Roses bloomed everywhere
it grew in my dream again
but when you went away
I felt that I was standing alone on the shore
my dreams flew away

If I may not be wrong
but again, when I felt the mild breeze blowing
two birds were singing together
and loving each other
the Spring sprung,
again I heard your voice on the shore
and you told me,
you would not be alive without leaving mine
and again, love grew in my dream

///
@Musfiq us shaleheen