through me

Is it another coincidence that the things you don't like in me are the same things I have always wanted to get rid of.

I want to speak to you and not say anything. Like just move my lips and feel every word I'm speaking but let no air come out.

I can only make you laugh when I’m cold as ice inside or boiling water.

If you own me and I don't own you then I am literally left with nothing. But even this emptiness, this nothing, doesn't remain in vacuum for long, as hope slowly begins to fill it, that elusive, illusory, wishful substance that the mind leaks when it is being dominated strongly by the heart.

“How the miracle of our meeting Shone there and sang, I didn't want to return From there to anywhere. Happiness instead of duty Was bitter delight to me. Not obliged to speak to anyone, I spoke for a long while. Let passions stifle lovers, Demanding answers, We, my dear, are only souls At the limits of the world"

Logic had failed me and in revenge I started following my heart. A jungle started to bloom inside me. I was slowly being filled with all foliage, moss, colours and wild flowers and they were all over the place, over the couch, the bed, over all my comforts, even the chairs and tables started to slowly decay. These beauties wouldn't listen to me and I let the control and comfort go, I let them all go.

She said "I want to quit. Quit life" I said "Let's run away from life, let's see how far does she let us go?" She said "You're living in a dream" I thought 'aren't we all are.' And I said "and wishing it never ends. You ignited the dream. Now I don't know how to quit it. Let's be the pair which made life succumb to love."

Cause when the heart gets bitter the tongue sprinkles the missing sugar.

I couldn't ask her if she could live on love and poetry cause the poet in me hushed the lover.

The cocktail of feelings writer's go through when they stare at the empty page, and the way they would feel when they send their child away into the world. The way mother's feel when they're pregnant, and their feelings when they send their children away. The way a painter's feel when they see a white canvas, and the way they feel after both the canvas and the brush are tired. Could we ever imagine how the creator would have felt when it saw the loneliness, the emptiness, and the way it would feel when it sees you seeing back. Imagine all the artists, dancers, singers, poets and creators, every mother and every child, every feeling they've ever felt. Now feel it all at once.

I could still feel us in this room until I opened the windows. The wind and sun stole your heavy presence in minutes. And then I heard a thought which sounded like us, beyond all logic, it asked me if I could chase the wind and trace the rays back and never open the windows again.