If the papers lying on my desk
had a voice, they would ask me
why don’t I write anymore.
They would ask for more stories
about us that I kept telling them
for years, we are their favourites.
I first started writing when you
came in with a smile and
filled my heart with your warmth.
One day you’ve left me grieving in
this cold, dark place and I thought
may be I could write for one last time.
Tears stained the papers instead of
ink, but they didn’t understand
this new language I wrote in.
Those papers are just lying there,
I never write again after
wiping the last tear off my face.
May be they do have a voice and
want to know what made me
stop writing, but I can’t hear them now.