I took my rusted pen, my useless words and tried to write something beautiful for you. Words filled with my love, words that tasted like all your favorite forgotten dreams. But I found myself tracing the only words on your skin. I ended up rewriting your sorrow. I ended becoming the face of your fears.
There is something about this life. This life with you that makes me feel guilty. It is the life that I am not supposed to be in. I feel like I am trespassing and any moment someone would catch me for asking and taking more than I deserve for thinking of a possibility of happiness with you.
The tissues I have cried into are my excuses, to hide the clutter of calls and love I forgot to return. Sometimes it is too late to clear the mess I made. It is more difficult to retain my will to clean it all up, which sort of made me guilty of creating another sad person. But what is another tissue in another sea. Everyone dreams of sailing into a brighter morning leaving behind their darkness in another’s mind. What if I am as selfish as them. What is another ship, another selfish wish amidst thousand such others- all stranded on a water-less heart all looking for a flood, instead of directions.
My night melts into dreams of you and even when I loose my dream I loose my sleep, the night stays with me. The broken strand of hair on my shoulder could have been your tear if it had not passed through this night I live with, if it was not born in the fragile dream that you are.
The moon shines in my tear lined eyes. On the edges of my nails that have lost their color. Tonight once again light falls on only on those bits of me that are in no need for the love of a neutral god.
I sat on the stairs long after they stopped shouting. As the shout and anger made room for themselves in our lives. As muted cries became muted sighs. I would look at the sky and see no stars, but only the tears that pooled my eyes. For long, a portion of time got stuck in my heart to remind of how lonely a child could be in spite of having all.
The dust that lay on the page that I left open long ago is now a page on it’s own, with a story its own. I look at it and read negligence and loneliness. I read how things are forgotten so easily and how things are treated as things by people who live their life accumulating things and rest half of it misplacing, destroying, replacing and forgetting them. How people are treated on similar lines but worse. How we come back to claim our possessions when they can clearly exist better without us.
There is a soft tune that moves beneath your fingers as they move over the pages and words and worlds that you will never see. All the words of hope that I whisper to the you who exists within these barriers of skin, bones and sorrow. I fear these words will be like the music that doesn’t stop but fades, dissolving into time and distance. Like that music it will pass from me to you, from you to nothingness.