I write with letters of the silent alphabet
the foreword is a short criticized page.
With my heart pounding and silence as my bed
I notice that my life will step to another stage.

I will not be a poet, I will just pretend
that I use noble and enchanted words
I'll write, but I'll be not famous at the end
I'm going to search for the emotions of verbs.

And the non-colorful muse with which I feed,
will be hiding in the comfort of billions of stars
will feel melancholy this entire universe of greed
my eardrums will have an echo of silence and scars.

The way it started
Was nothing
Short of
A boring
Prologue
Of a ******
Novel…

But it was
The in-betweens
That makes
The story
Count,
The stolen glances,
Shy smiles
And voiceless
Affections…

The things that
Often go
Unwritten
But perhaps the
Most vivid
Memories
We keep…

The silent whispers
Of hope and unrequited
Love…
The hidden lines
Between what
Has been written
Down.

It is the in-betweens
That made
Me want to
Tell our
Story,
Not the lackluster
Beginnings-
Definitely not
The ending-
It has its own charms,
But I’d rather
Not relive
The feelings
I’ve killed and
Buried deeper
Than six feet.

But as it is,
We won’t have the
In-betweens
Without a
Beginning…

So let me,
Let me tell
How it started-
From how I remember
Them, how I saw
Things from my own eyes.
And I’ll let you
Tell yours
Afterwards..
Should you ever
Want to
Reminisce what
Has been-
I’ll just leave this here
For you.