Sometimes I feel a void inside myself,
Emptiness ready to crush me with its nothingness;
And then again I open my eyes—
And the world stares back again.
My frame is a reed, hollow from the inside,
Whole from the outside,
And all I know is that I am matter.

The deafening and resounding silence
Is another matter of concern—
It doesn’t crushes; just makes me devoid
Of all the bliss of Nature’s precious notes;
It is the only sound which surrounds me
In the maddening crowd of the quintessential.

There is the numbness which confounds me:
It has the worst slap of damnation,
Amplifying the teeniest touch,
Pouring life into every cell.
It tosses me amid the tempest in the Ocean,
And leaves me battling the waves alone.

What distances me from my kin?
What is that which I am always seeking?
Life comes and goes, and here I am,
Still at a loss to comprehend the haps.
I just am, will just be; and none would lament
The real me, as it is wrapped in its shadows.

Who told you that there was something like soul-mate floating around in the depths of the air?
Who told you that even air has depths?
Was it during introspection that it dawned upon you that all shallow things have depths?
But then, the air is not shallow;
It is not deep, nor shallow;
How has the shallow air depths?

If there are soul-mates floating in the air, it cannot be shallow;
If the air is a mere mixture of gases, it cannot harbour depth.
Now turn everything around:
The air is shallow because it has souls floating in it;
The air is deep because it is a mixture of gases-
It is all a tale of contrasting realities,
And I am asked that why is the shallow air deep, and where is the depth hidden?

Hidden?
If somethin is hidden, how can I measure the depth and the shallowness?
If it is visible, I cannot see it.
I cannot see it even when I see it.
After all, things visible are invisible,
And relatedness is a centrifugal force.

And when even the crickets are still,
The leaves unmoving, the cold biting,
Innocent people getting ready to sleep,
The fire reducing down to embers;
When the clock stops at twelve,
Its hands moving yet not moving,
Then is the winter at its cruelest,
The other innocent people shiver with their blankets of the dense fog...

They say sixteen is a tender age.
I do not have any idea if that really is,
But my sixteenth was a purgatory of heavens.
You were the reason my mind suffered;
You were the sole means of release.

Seeing you was flying out in space, with no force, because there, even gravity is absent.
And what was I for you?
A science person? An uninteresting nerd with glasses which were certainly not in the picture of your lover.
But I was enamoured, ******* with you,
Whilst you never as much as glanced down at me.
So now when today you see me,
All changed, do you think that you would have any place in my life again?
That time would rewind its tide?
That my wounds are healed?
Because time is no healer;
It just hides the scars of the stitches.
And in actuality it is the layer of cells from my own body,
Shielding its inner parts from the world outside.
Time has nothing to do with wounds and healing.
Still, time. If you talk about time, then I am going to walk you down through all the layers.
See for yourself, what effect you had on me;
Judge for yourself the level of intoxication.

I used to wonder at nights who you love, or would love, if not me.
If not me! As if that was a possibility.
In my mind, in my own personal heaven with you, it was.
There, it was a truth, a stark reality which no one would have been able to alter.
I would lie awake for hours at night thinking how it would feel to talk to you, to touch you, to feel you.
Lying beside me, my mother would ask me why I was so restless.
Oh tell me, what should I have told her?
That I was trying to peel off the layers of your face?
Deep in my bones, straight from inside
I had this belief that you were a radioactive mutant walking among normal people.

I used to gaze at the night sky, thinking if the stars would die when the sun will rise.
Yes, even after being a science person,
I used to ponder over the lifetime of stars, even when I knew.
In what sort of alternate reality was I living in, or you had made me exist in?

Is it not a dark comedy that
Sometimes honesty is the worst policy.
And after that eternal heartbreak
I will say that I still love you,
That I miss analysing the curves  your lips used to take when you would smile,
Dreaming how they would respond to my lips,
I miss stealing glances at your face, thinking it to be  breathtakingly the most beautiful creation of God,

But I don't need you now.

I know my defenses are weak,
But even nothing is something,
And that love was more than something,
It didn't even amount to nothing in its own nothingness.

Today I lay bare the story of us for the whole Universe to read.
But as the words flow, I think, and I think,
Do our thoughts determine who we are?
If yes, who am I, an OCD patient?
If no, who am I, a hopeless romantic?

I wanted no stone unturned, and you just ensured that the Kingdom came.

I want to cry, and wash you down with my tears,
And live anew, but what do I tell the others?
What do I tell the others when no tears come?
What do I tell them when I try to picture myself with that person who had impressed me with his knowledge of English literature, my thoughts are interrupted by the inner flashing of your face?
You tell me what to tell them.
That there is no remedy for memory, and that dreams don't lie?
Even when you don't, you make me,
There is something constructive hiding in all the destruction that has been caused.

Am I close to you anymore, now that it's over?
One day, yes, one day,
I will get over this concept of you and I.
Because you are not the only one.
You are not the whole Universe, now that there have been mathematical evidences of the existence of Multiverse.
You are not the Verse, I am.
In that tale where you were no less than the protagonist,
You were nonexistent,
Just a figment of my overheated thoughts;
I was never a fortune teller,
But when today I see you and then I see myself,
I am happy that you left me alone.