I wanted to write today.
My fingers itched.
My head pained.
Words were not coming.
In my heart. In my brain.
Felt uncomfortable
by this strain.
Have I stopped loving him?
Is it a writer's block?
tick
tock
tick
tock
tick
tock
....
blank page in front of me.
The poet is the clock.

Dear Future Lover,

I can only half love you.
I once loved wholly,
and it nearly killed me.

For a rhyming poem,
I would state -

"Love does not come easy for people of two kinds-
those who cannot stay
and those who cannot walk away."

You didn't stay.
I can't walk away.

Guess, this verse
is more than a word play.

I will stop loving him when lovers will stop closing their eyes when they kiss.

I was a recluse.
I was a traveller.
I was a nonconformist.
I was a free spirit.

Then one November evening,
I met YOU.

This nomadic soul,
this gypsy heart,
now wants
a little house in the suburbs
two children
a dog
and your last name.

I can describe you,
paraphrase you,
decorate you
with gazillion words.

But today, in three sentences I would impart
that
**You are the assassin.
You are the knife.
You are the wound in my heart.