he said to you on a friday afternoon,
a cup of coffee
held by hands
which dilapidated
on top of
deific disasters;

“promises are meant to be broken,” whispering,
like he did not want you
to hear the inner war cry
he kept on using
at nights he stayed awake,
only his thoughts as a perfect company
as he keeps a conversation
only the moon and him
know the existence of.

when you reached out to hold his hands
that were painted in shades of blue and grey,
it felt like forever
since your hands brushed
something so eloquent
even after the ungodly hours
he still called his decisions as mistakes,

or when he promised you
that the grandeurs of life
are crushed into smithereens
on his sturdy palms,
not telling you about the stubborn apparitions
refusing to let go
of everything it once held dear;

when he flipped through the pages
of a worn-out scrapbook
like it was your
place of solitude,
staring at each snapshot longingly;

when he promised you that
he, too, would not let go
even after the nights
he calculated the
possibility of you leaving him;

when he told you
that he was a troubled painter,
sketching the familiar taste of dysphoria
dawning over him every time
he was told he was onerous;

when he promised you that
he would finish every painting
but he kept each canvas hidden
under the floor boards.

you told him on a saturday morning,
a cup of tea
held by puckish hands
which built walls
around everything
your little heart desired,

“then, why make them?”