i read a poem that he wrote a few days back
and i realized how no one understood his words
i wanted to tell him that i still remembered his scars
i wanted to tell him that i knew whom he wrote it for

with every rhyme that he had knitted,
with every full stop that he had added
i knew exactly what he wanted to share
i knew exactly what he wanted hid in layers.

his poem was nothing but a cluster of words
that felt like a secret message to me.
his poem was nothing but a confession at 2 am
that felt like a desperate and helpless plea.