I still have her guitar
The one the church gave her

I started to practice; to learn it’s tune

but when I strummed its brittle strings, her sad voice was all I heard


Her blue-green wrinkled eyes bored through me

Her soft song rang in my ears



I said I needed space, I needed distance from her past


but every time I picked up that old guitar

her silver-grey presence reappeared


What used to be fond memories,
playing in my mind as I held its wooden body close,


transformed into drunken hazes- to a sea of black disguised as blue

……………………………………………………

How can I still practice, still play this guitar
when every time I look at it

I just think of her

I knew you’d never cross my way,
yet hope deceived my heart each day.
My heart holds only your memories true,
my eyes just illusions, still painted of you,
a ghost of love that chose to stay.

A reminder of a boy i once liked—
He used to slip me love letters before class,
Sketched in shaky handwriting,
Decorated with crayons I had once given him.
At the bottom, two ducks floated side by side.
Back then, I thought it was the sweetest thing.
Now I roll my eyes and smile—
How silly it seems.

He picked wildflowers,
From the schoolyard fence,
Told me they were as pretty as me,
And tucked them into my hair
My cheeks burned hotter
Than the blazing afternoon sun.

At night, I would stay up  too late,
Texting him on my old flip phone,
Pretending to snore
Whenever my parent peeked in.
I swear my heart was pounding louder
Than the phone's plastic keypad.

Back then,
I swore he was the only boy
Who could ever exist in my world—
A match made in heaven, I thought.
Though low-key,
I was too shy to say it out loud.

The donkey swayed through fading light, dust rose, laughter lingered,
a memory carried farther than the road.

A smile so innocent,perhaps sold at just a cent

The eyes of pure joy,even without a priceless toy

Even when the eyes couldn’t see, the end of this vast sea

Yet,the world,seemed so full of colour,
Even tiny little things,bloomed like a flower

An endless dawn,without being a pawn,
I wish I could go back,being a hopeless fawn

Funny little things and stupidity allover,
I dreamed I will go back,when the simulation is finally over

The definition of genuine-
Why couldn’t I find it in the ruin?

As the end was near, the story of "fear"
As if something got strucked by a spear,making the moon never so clear

The picture of a setting sun,crying for one last fun
But nothing could stop the time,wishing for a final,harmless crime

Untill the end of times,the dawn of eternity
May this piece,again and again,find its destiny.

~
Hear me, and heed my woe,

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
              how thy smileth reaches
                            thy eyen and
                                    crinkles the c'rn'rs
                                                  immensely.
Thy confidence, a flame
          yond burneth with f'rvent might,
   intimidating, yet draweth me in,
                            as moth to candle's lighteth.
Thy passion is contagious,
                 thy excitement a thrill,
    i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
                                    but mem'ries ling'r still

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
          as thee gazeth into mine own eyen
                                        bef're our lips meeteth
    our intimate moments,
                                 a sensual rapture,
           thy corse, a w'rk of art,
                           sculpt'd p'rfectly in all its
                                                   muscular stature

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
             the way we w're,
                     young with a future,
                                         we couldst not seeth.
      What ifs and maybes,
               a maze, i tryeth to escapeth,
                      longing f'r what couldst've been,
           a heart yond acheth.

Ev'ry fare thee well,
                             a pang in mine own chest,
         feareth of nev'r seeing thee again,
                                      and all yond is repress'd
Thy absence, a weight
              yond i doth striveth to shaketh,
     wond'ring wh're thou art,
                                       what thou dost maketh.
   Art thou joyous, art thou free from careth?
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
                     yet some days, 'tis hard to beareth.

In sooth,
    i am not depress'd,
           n'r doth i feeleth the blues, wh'reupon
i f'rce myself to not bethink on Thee …
                            by mineth owneth shall, anon.
~