Everytime I ask her, why all the act?
She just flips her hair and moves back
Only to come back and put up
Just another show of hers

She was not entirely a bad person
Just someone in a bad story
There was no good light in it,
Nor the music backed the scenes

Sometimes she tries to dance
To the songs with her swaying fingers
And occasionally,
Struggles to act up the scenes
To Bring some sense to it

And the play always fails
But she was a good actor

Because the act was so good,
So good,
That the audience thought that's who she is,
There a hopeless romantic
Here a woman with no feelings
There a trustworthy friend
Here a total wreck of a person
And on it goes

Once the show ends,
No one knows where she goes,
No one knows who's there at her home,
Or if she even has a home
No one tries
And no one did

Dark,
Deep breathes under the sheets
Like black owl's in scary mights
Toes fettered with invisible chains
Heartbeat racing , eyeballs swaying
Hands clawing the mouth,
Not letting the low moans escape

No, she ain't making love
But definitely ******* herself up
Sitting straight and crawling back to a ball
From time to time, listening to
Ticking clock like time bombs,
Footsteps in the attic,
Snores of tired and worn out souls

Breathing in and out deliberately,
Brushing off breathes at times
Gasping and searching in thin air
As if to find someone for a hug
Clutching the hair,  feeling the Pounding head
Muttering "I don't want this anymore" Again,
Unclenching slowly for brief comforts

Why are the nights so scary and strange?
Why are the shadows that amazes her in the morning,
Alarms her in the dark?
Why does the memories dismissed in light,
Rolls back in gloom, like waves in the sea?
Again,
Another night singing the songs of depression
And tucking her back to sleep

Light,
Silently walking down the hallway
To come by an ornate mirror
Staring at it, dissecting emotions
Welled up under the pretentious sturdy figure
Conceding to herself of
How beautiful she looks with
the red oceaned eyes and trembling lips.

Sometimes I wonder,
If the wind that knocked on my window panes,
Had something to tell me,
About someone who lived far away

Someone with stories and songs
And pains, yearning to share
Waiting with sprawled arms for a hug
Pining his heart to drain out the loss

Sometimes I wonder,
Of all the places I went,
Did the wind take me there
To haul me a little to someone so far

Someone who's tranquil breathe
At nights wake me up from
Deepest of sleeps And
Plays his puppet shows in dark

Is the autumn leaves
Scattered in the streets
The dried and dead flowers
Blown and trounced at late hours
To feed the funeral of your pains

Did the leaves just whistled,
Or was it your songs
Written in white clouds
Tuned with the tears
That fell down your cheeks

Someday I'll follow the wind
Till the end,  To meet you
And tell you that
I heard you cry
And here I am

Listen,
Sometimes the wind,
Blows your dreams away,
And sometimes it brings
Memories that stay.

How I am aware of each of your moves,
Undoubted
Your fingers drawing my imperfections so flawless
The inexorable yet calm breathes
Like scared ghosts in haunted rooms
Our teeth trying to elude the fated collisions
But tongues worn out of untying themselves
Sometimes lost in the abyss of your elfin face
Sometimes returning with a smidgen of yourself
I could feel the earth stopping it's boring rotation
And resolving to a rhythmic oscillation
My eyes burn from the ocean over my eyelids,
The knots in my chest untangling with it's each beat
As if the pernicious inhabitants started to vacate their indefinite abode
Our rained bods sailing,unbridled, to the irreparable wounds,
Caressing them to axe the pain we cached so perfect
The meekness of your kiss edging the reality a little further each time
The familiar savour of yours filling my nostrils
Elating my senses and drowning me in it
I close my eyes, hard , in a rapture of pain
And hang to the hollows of your ridge

Do your craters ache?
But we now look like parts of a one
Perfectly glued to finish the tangram.