Where the cheerful childrenof unwritten poems,play all around,you will find me there.

Only to close these eyesto sleep in the lap of loveand stay there forever.

From all my dreams where you felt everlastingto all my clothes your words used to wear,to the old end, to the new beginning,you have lost me everywhere.

Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be damaged? Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be weak in some places?

What about those Promises of yours to never leave me? she asked, stammering too much this time. His cruel smirk was as gut-wrenching as his words— Promises are meant to be broken, sweetheart.

The way your curious eyes were chasing mine when I stood in front of you, I knew I had known these eyes before.

I feel the pain—everywhere.

I threw myself so far in your depth that it took me a month to come out and notice I was actually sitting in my room. Nowhere else. Not with you.

Someday, even my existence would be felt.

Do you love me enough that I am allowedto be damaged? Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be weak in some places?

I didn’t want a story—a beginning. Not anymore. I have long ago stopped walking on a road where my dreams walk around. I change my destination a hundred times if I ever see an old wish of mine standing there in its real form. I don’t know them. I don’t want to. They too must not know me. They too must not recognise me as their owner.

She was a wonderful teenage girl who had the miraculous power to cure herself from any wound, either physical or mental. With her own salty tears, she would cleanse her raw wounds. And her breaths were given, as though not to breathe but, rather, to fan her sores.

But if ever I try to mend, some other bodies would instantly break, would instantly be fragments.

But my world fell apart, and all they could do, the whole universe, was to silently move on.

So every time I lose one of my shoes and my brother looks at me angrily thinking I’m trying to catch a prince with a lost shoe, or mistakenly cuts myself and the whole world around me thinks I’m trying to attract a vampire, I just laugh sounding like a complete stranger to them. And to everyone like them. I know I don’t need to be a Cinderella. Or an Isabella. I already own things, all things, every single thing, which I love and proudly dream to own. They're just not here…not in this world. And that definitely doesn’t mean, I lost them.

This is a girl you can’t keep. You aren’t allowed to.

It’s a poem, of our love, that doesn’t rhyme. A story, never meant to have, a happy end.

In that silence, I dream to be.

There is a sad end I used to liveeven before I knewthis is how I was meant to begin.

To show you all my scars, is not to tell you that this Dunya would always leave you wounded, and bruised, and on knees, but to show you that see, healing is always possible. Healing is easy. Healing is beautiful.

My eyes always keep searching,for something inexpressible,above the far away sky.I long to get lost,inside the evening-twilight.Silence always tickles me —in a strange way;I meet “me”in the time between sunset and darkness.

Through my seeking of what is beyond beautiful, of what is intriguing, of what is free from all imperfections and wrongs, I realise my soul is not from here. I belong to a different place, from a different world, a different existence.

Do you ever wonder, do you, why I loved you for such a long time, and still didn’t really know you?

Like a forgotten old photograph, this dream will stay pressed, between the pages of a book you don’t feel like reading anymore.

But I hope you don’t feel the hurt as much as I did. You are too weak and fragile to stand that ache. Remember, you always will be.

Just as the way sun is behind the moon’s light reflection, I know that everything which comes into my life, or every thing I notice, I see, I hear, has a story behind it. And that story connects it to me. So I become curious to know these back stories. And the more I know them, the more I know myself, each time in a different way.

And they can’t understand, what hurts more— Missing the other person, or pretending not to.

When the twilight of all my evenings reaches me, after a long dark day, my complicated thoughts suffocate inside all of my uncomplicated longings. Evenings refuse to end. And the dawns that constantly swallow up my nights, always shows me an extremely long road I still need to tread, and discover. And get hurt.

How could she be someone’s mistake?

Please don’t tell me, it was less painful than a broken backbone, a forgotten poem, a lost home.