Pens and Pages

I'm far from being a romantic person. Loving? Not at all. I giggle at the wrong time. My laugh is too loud. I dance weirdly. I often find myself away from people or I find a way to push them away. But I giggle, laugh and dance anyway. And whenever I find myself alone, I sing, I think and I write. That's the closest to love that I can ever be. And when I hug the trees and kiss the sunset, when I admire the birds fly and I dance on the beach, that's the closest to romance that I can ever be. I make poems in my head. I make them all the time. I have always been in love. I'm still in love. I pour all my love to the notepad I write on. I romance the pen. The poems that are still lingering in my head, they say I'm incurably romantic. I still keep my poems. I live more in my imaginations than in reality. And if that's not love, I don't know what else is. I don't need a him or a her. I'm in love with love itself. I'm a story in another story. I'...

Like a cup of warm coffee Kept on his table from long, He takes a sip from me As he kills a little piece of my heart Every time he does. He then keeps the cup away. I long for him, hurt, For just one more sip, One more kiss, One more time together. "I promise I'll forget you," I lie. He gives it a thought, Reminiscing the last kiss. Bitter. He refuses. Another chance? He reconsiders. Our lips meet yet again... And while he takes the sip gently, Taking in all of me slowly, Killing a part of me as he does, I know it is not over Because after a little while I'd ask for another chance, He'd comply. I'd call it love, Knowing very well That someday the coffee will be cold, He will move on to another Cup of warm coffee Probably not as bitter As my so-called love.