Monday, 16 May 2016

to the person who made me a dreamer and a poet

there were months when i didn’t have a single poem in me; but still, i had more love and light and hurt than i could handle. at dusk, i sat in my bed , soaked in longing. loneliness echoed in me and i gave her hundreds of names, although there was only one i missed. at midnight, I kept whispering let the less loving of the two of us be me . it never came true.

you were the first one who taught me compassion ; love was a knife in your hands, but, God, how I loved it. i cut myself on its edges and kept coming back. at least, that’s what i write about, when i’m not afraid. it’s not that i am scared of what words can do – it’s about what they can’t do. what good are they if i can’t have you back, if you don’t want me to have you back ?

long train rides while laughing and peeking at strangers on the side of the tracks. looking into the deepest and darkest of skies. these are the dreams we should be having. i shouldn’t be cleaning them up right now. there was a heart that went missing a few years ago. just like that – gone. i dreamed i lost it. it came true.

that heart was not made for bullets.

but it goes on. i pretend that stars at night are nothing else but stars. i pretend there was no love so kind that I could have died for. 

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