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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.