severed

In the end, it was you.
your conscious decision
like a doctor, like a gardener
I felt it when I first saw you too
and even when you said, 'hey listen,..
we're going to be best..' and I played it in my head over and over
now- it's almost funny how time, and you, made a mockery
of me and played ever so delicately with each string
and found a useless shell of a tool
threw it back to the sea with no company in its own misery
each call, each message, each meal, all the memories they sting
-smile at me and say I am a fool

X came last summer, unexpected and left this summer
as expected amidst my fears
X called and said 'hey, I haven't talked to you in so long'
we spoke and never did again
X used to tell me about everything that was a bummer
couldn't be bothered now; someone please tell me it is not worth my tears
X made me feel like I belong
now on a clear day, I am a drop of rain

//
Am I glad it was earlier so the pain would be greater? but wow does it hurt when you sat there as I stood facing the back of your white tee.
finis

And remember.

"Did you receive my email?"
I think that was what you asked that February, almost at the end.

I reckon I was a bit too happy then, that you made an effort - to respond, to ensure. I reckon I was happy with everything else too. Someone told me that I was too easily satisfied, too easily impressed, too easily happy, by everything you did, every word you said. That same someone told me to write to you. But I could not, could I? Who am I that you should pay attention? Who am I that you should bother to be civil? Who am I that you should care? I think that may be why I am too easily content. Content with hoping without hope. I learnt many things from many people. Many things about you, I admit. And I can't help hoping that one day, I would be able to do so from you, yourself. It is going to be almost 4 years, how time flies. And I am still stuck where you left. In that time loop. Replaying everything over and over. What is that to someone half the world across?

And it wasn't even anything much. ha.
Only a look, a tap, sometimes a smile, occasionally a lecture.
Twice a brush, a walk.

I wrote that in some years I will recall those memories and laugh at their insignificance.I hope it will be soon. I am far from laughter. A friend told me that intoxicated, she poured out her feelings, to the wrong person, but to the subject of the conversation. I think I may have cracked a smile at the simplicity of it all, and wished I was not too conscious a person. Perhaps, one day I will have the courage, and the confidence. Perhaps it will already have been too late by then. Perhaps it is already too late now. Perhaps, it was never even a realistic possibility. I would like to know, but how could I? So maybe then, keep being elusive a character, keep running.
Run.
Run, you, clever boy..

Petra

I feel you're too cruel, too unfeeling, too frightening. Am I too bold? Too pathetic? Certainly, I agree I must be pathetic. Bold, I wish I was. Or shall I say, bolder? Am I discerning enough to know I have been, like a speck of dust, in your immense universe of the stars, the planets, and the moons? But foolish enough to risk baring my soul to you? I only wish it could stop, feelings should stop existing in forms of you. And where is Reason? 

It beats.

And it aches, for the ones who fought to see the light, for the ones who fought, for the ones who struggled, for the ones who tried.

It aches, for the mother who gave life, only to witness it slipped away too soon, for the lover for whom the vows lost their place, for the children- precious children- I can't go on

2 miles apart, I barely know you. In fact, I didn't at all. I wish I still didn't. If this didn't happen, I wouldn't, would I? I wish I didn't. Not in the way I know now. It is too harsh, too unexpected, too like the sudden storm, I detest them all - the beasts who thought extinguishing a flame which another has lighted with affection was justifiable, and the monsters who shamelessly claim your glory for themselves. Utterly disgraceful, and conceited.

I can't read it.

The only spot you should sit is next to me, you wrote.

True, I talk of dreams,

Which are the children of an idle brain,
begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
which is as thin of substance as the air
and more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And being angered, puffs away from thence, 

Turning his face to the dew-dropping south, 

- Romeo and Juliet (Act 1, Scene 4)

The call

A person called and asked if I was in the country, and I said yes, but who are you?
The person told me a name I couldn't recognise among my acquaintances but a small part (actually, a big part) of me wished it has been P---- instead of C----, and then I realised the foolishness of my imagination and have to end the call because I am rather susceptible to that accent, and I would have gone on imagining, eh?

but then that compels me to take up my pen again, and I suppose I should be thankful?

A hood no longer binding

Go back to where you came from,

Crawl back into the realm of nothingness and immorality, to the darkness and beyond, we have no need of you and your serpent tongue. Deceit is your asset, inspired by narcissism and self-adoration, gratitude does not reside in your abhorrent mind, neither does the truth in your heart. Your glibful tongue, your scheming mind, a testimony against you. Crawl back to where you came from. The sooner, the better. For the sake of everyone (not that you'd care), do humanity at least one favour.