People leave you out in the cold and get mad when you learn how to get warm by yourself.
I took my rusted pen, my useless words
and tried to write something beautiful for you.
Words filled with my love,
words that tasted
like all your favorite forgotten dreams.
But I found myself tracing
the only words on your skin.
I ended up rewriting your sorrow.
I ended becoming the face of your fears.
all the folded boats
spill out of my empty books.
the trees are on fire again.
my mind is on a another wild chase.
my hands light some more branches.
“the world is too cold for me”,
is all that i can say.
today, i am less sad than yesterday,
which makes everything that much more difficult.
today my sorrows have become facts.
my childhood reduced to folded boats in a trash can.
is there any other way to live than this?
A drop of me falls on your leaves,
falls from your leaves.
The rain of love
finds you again
even if it is without me.
The ground of reality
hits me again,
asking me to give you up.
It tells me that
if I wait enough,
wait long enough
I will find you.
And by finding you
only I will be ruined.
There is something about this life.
This life with you
that makes me feel guilty.
It is the life that I am not supposed to be in.
I feel like I am trespassing
and any moment
someone would catch me
and taking more than I deserve
for thinking of a possibility of happiness with you.
The tissues I have cried into
are my excuses,
to hide the clutter of calls and love I forgot to return.
Sometimes it is too late to clear the mess I made.
It is more difficult to retain my will to clean it all up,
which sort of made me guilty
of creating another sad person.
But what is another tissue in another sea.
Everyone dreams of sailing into a brighter morning
leaving behind their darkness in another’s mind.
What if I am as selfish as them.
What is another ship, another selfish wish
amidst thousand such others-
all stranded on a water-less heart
all looking for a flood, instead of directions.
My night melts into dreams of you
and even when I loose my dream
I loose my sleep,
the night stays with me.
The broken strand of hair on my shoulder
could have been your tear
if it had not passed through this night
I live with,
if it was not born in the fragile dream
that you are.