Pens and Pages

Source: Levo.com I set them on fire, The pillars of withered leaves Like promises long broken. The bridge collapses On a sea of grief. I set them on fire Like there was no yesterday Looking at this morning With remorse and a hidden pain. Ages have elapsed Like a strand of hair That loses its identity over time, Turning pallid painlessly. I set them on fire- The long tresses you so loved once, Touching my neck, And down my spine, Once or twice, a gentle peck. I have burnt bridges, More times than I have lit a cigar Or held you in my arms. Today I pin them down, I collect the ashes- Another bridge to build With grey pillars of Infidelity and torture. Love, they call it While I prepare for it to kindle.

The hopeful, loyal girl Waited as she promised She would. He has forgotten her face now. She doesn't remember anything More than his name, anyway. There were days when they both Wailed in the pain of separation. "I'll come back," he said. "I'll wait". Promises are mere words. Words were forgotten. "He is probably dead by now," She declares, Clutching the collar of her cane. They are no longer young. She doesn't remember much Of even the previous day, anyway. She chants his name As she claims her deathbed. She remembers how he used to smell. "Probably he just passed by," she sighs at the familiar smell. Traces of tears on her wrinkled face. How would he know? He has forgotten her face. She is dead now. Did it matter, anyway?

Writers don't move on. They make love with solitude, They take sorrow in their arms. They run their fingers down grief's spine. They touch words gently And force themselves on a river of tears. They let masochism win; so when they bleed, It's Utopia for them. Writers don't move on. They stumble on memories. They recall something that was eons ago. They embrace regrets And make love with retrospection. And when they do, They make memories their concubine, And then they sleep on past's lap, Because they're writers And writers don't move on...

I wrote your name in a million letters, On the pillars of love, On the walls of heart, But as each day passes by, I love you a little less, And that might be the thing about love, That today you remember my name and I forgot yours...