Reminiscing old, long-lost memories
that we once lived for,
is like pressing on bruises
that are not yet healed.

The bittersweet pain of our reverie,
seeks to mingle
with the weary, blurred lines
of the so-called 'peace'
we've come to accept.

Maybe it’s not the silence
or the yearning for what's long gone,
but the desire to at least,
for once, feel something
in this slow-burning,
hope-filled fever dream.

The storm that once
overtook my soul ceases,
a soft zephyr taking its place.

I gaze above as the Sun
reaches its zenith;
away from all the chaos
I yearn to leave behind.

All that could be heard now,
were the echoes of blazing thunder,
blurred into the faded hums
of a lullaby I once cherished.

Would it be wrong
to attempt painting the blank canvas
that's been sitting in my attic
for longer than I've had it?

To witness the sky paint itself
shades you've never seen;
blooming with thorns of yearning
as your gaze turns away?

Or to be drowned
by the soft reflection
of worldly glee,
as the moon begins to fall?

Oh, tell me --

Is it really wrong
to pour your heart out,
when you've never had anything
to pour at all?

Memories are what we would call
the ephemeral hues
on the canvas of time,

the intricate outlines
of painstaking work
seeming a blur from the distance;

all blending into the faded echoes
of our past regrets.

Perhaps, the one sole star
that we wished upon as kids,
wasn't ever about the glowing speck
in the seemingly endless sky above.

All it took
were a few wakeful nights,
to realize--
it was, and always had been,
you.

Even if you burn my heart
until there's nothing left but ashes,
I'd still adore the flames
that ignite us for eternity.

What path in this warren of life,
made you go from affection
in everything you said,
to disdain in your nostalgic eyes?

The promises we uttered,
expecting to keep them for eternity and after;
now dissolved in the acid of your treachery.

Was it just me who had that intention
of never leaving until the end of time
or, were they merely just a game of your deceit?

The mirage of your trust and insistence
of partly carrying my burdens,
as I did for you,
now reduced to ashes
from which an ember lowly emits in its wake.

The very envisage of us being,
that would hush me too a deep repose
on sleepless nights;
now keeping me up until dawn.

Perhaps,
it was my fault
for expecting so much.

For assuming you were
the one friend I'd needed,
in this deep, hollow concept of living.

I suppose what I'm better off with
is a barren version
of the shallow expectations concerning
human existence.

Often times, I reckon,
what would be of us
if we hadn't strayed apart to divergent voyages.

It is as though,
due to the circumstances uncalled
or our fraying nexus of connection,
we just weren't meant to be.