I hear news of you, and I ask – why does it bother me still?
Maybe because, you own many of my memories
and you are the stem of thoughts that drop in petals and links
to a life I never lived.
Your smile is in front of my eyes
and I still don’t know, how to forget your smell.
songs that make me think I could smile
behind the pearls that fall from mine eyes
bokeh on words you’ll never read.
I hope you are happy.
There were other thoughts… trails of thinking that my current mood seems to have consumed.
I’m oddly left out of so many things
wondering – where is it right? where do I fit in?
take the time
to fill the silence
and sip the mirth on my lips
I think you would
I align the right/left and divine
and arrange the spaces with ticks of time
I smile at things that are said
in the comfort of being unknown
but the disconnect
What’s the perk in being cryptic?
except to put into words the fragments of notions that lack sizable pieces
like ‘what if’
if you filled my head with thoughts of god and God and gods and what nots would it compare to filling my mind with ideas for stories I’d never write and you’d never read wondering how well i could balance on the beam of fiction and what’s real to be broken apart like bread and fed into mouths that say no to carbohydrates.
(do words serve a purpose even when they clearly lack meaning?)
sands into lines
grains of letters
trying to pass
for something more than
I shall sleep and wake up in the morrow
foggy from dreams
questioning why i wrote what i wrote
knowing that all i know