Pens and Pages

I have seen fresh flowers decay; I have seen them rot and die. So, I know things end And I could just sulk and cry. Tears slosh within me like waves. No, don't look at me in the eye. For even if your eyes touch mine I'll just run away, hide and cry. Things will never be the same Now that you're leaving my side. Who knows if we'll meet again Or if it indeed is our last Goodbye. Goodbye.

When I was fifteen Growing up was the new thing :-) I said no kissing Till I turn eighteen :-/ A secret room for two When I turn twenty-two <3 But now I'm twenty-four And I throw him out that door  :-/ Tomorrow I'll be twenty-six And I'll be in a fix  :-( For when I'm thirty Things might get dirty :-O Because I'll again need you When I turn thirty-two :-) But when we both turn sixty Being together will be risky :-/ For we'd want to be fifteen again And break the promise of kissing too late. :-P

She whispers words in my ears, Songs in my head, Dark songs in my soul. She vanishes as dawn breaks. And when the night Covers me With its starless blanket, She appears again On the doorstep. Two gentle knocks On the wooden door. Third, She calls out my name. She then whispers my name, Again and again. She sings songs of the past, Songs of the dead. She wears the moon On her face. But tonight's a moonless night; She bears no face. She whispers death in my ears, Songs in my head. Songs forgotten, Songs of the dead.

I bite the bitter leaves Of the tree that grows in my backyard. I pick up the yellow ones, Dying and pretending to be Beautiful, Both. I hear her speak, In that familiar accent. She laughs aloud; A shrill pitch in her voice. Deep red lipstick on her lips. A little more flare in her hair. Her eyes beam as she talks. I look at myself, Then I look at her. I was more real With the leaves I hold on to. She plucks flowers From my backyard. I feel sorry Both for the flower And her. Fake, I called her once And made her cry. He called her beautiful. I looked at her again, And that made me cry.

Mist In the air, Thinning out As it travels Inside your soul. You let it out, Too soon. You don't Let it affect The words Your lungs breathe. You float For some seconds, Ephemeral. Later, You sink in, You let yourself drown. Mist In the air. Now you're one. The air outside. The air inside. You're the mist you breathe. In every breath You take It is his name. He says The air that infuses And permeates your soul. You're the mist Who lost its identity. You're the mist You breathed in.

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?

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'...