Exeunt Petrarch

Finis.

Such a shame

I wrote a poem about you. 

I don't suppose it will be seen again. 

Perhaps, I like you. 

But, perhaps, 

I like writing poems. 

Just a title

That I bring myself to care, 

Never have I been faced with compelling reasons not to. 

Just you wait. Go on this way and one day you'll be out in the streets.

Don't call me your ... 

To be fair

it's completely justifiable.

If I were the world and everyone else, I would not want me to exist.
But then again, even I do not want me to exist.

My first thought was, "Your smile is definitely worth more than that. Infinitely more."

But I've never dreamt of the honour being bestowed upon one so insignificant, of course. Won't the galaxies once fixed for a glance (dare I say!) be sufficient? Again, dare I say, thrice! A rather incredulous intuition.

Let go

Because in the midst of nostalgia, you'll realise that nothing ever last, nothing has ever lasted and nothing ever will. Some things, they say, will never be the same. The constant is, in fact, in its change. We will move from places to places, and what remained will only be a memory. Sometimes we will leave, sometimes we are left. And that persistent memories are but fragments of our ideal longing, no longer real and substantial. 

But you know, it was real then.  

Tuesday

I said, I said, don't bother me, 

with your presence- how can I suppress a flutter? 

with your voice- do let the throbbing of my pulse subside! 

with your smile- they say I almost turned scarlet. 

I said, I said, don't bother me. 

How could I be so superficially drawn? 

As if I was still young to still foolishly indulge! 

But your hand-oh- my thoughts are still in broken fragments.