Wilted Words

I look at the butterfly imprisoned behind the glass pane in the insects museum, Still and lifeless. I look at the flower crushed under the weight of the pages of my book, Dry an Careless. And then there is your heart, pressed Underneath the words unsaid and your secrets, Suffocated and breathless. Only then I realised that dead things can be beautiful.

I have a tendency, Of loving things which are bad for me, That's why I love my cigarettes, Why I only eat fast food, And you.

We met again. Seven years later.  I am  twenty eight,  You are twenty nine now,  And I have a kid.  You squint your eyes at me,  Tilt your head, and your eyes widen,  You approach me gingerly, And smile at my daughter.  You pinch her cheek,  And smile at her, and I remember,  How your palm felt against my own face,  How your smile warmed my heart. 

I wrote a poem, just for you. My hands were unsteady while writing it as my words flowed. rushing out, like prisoners breaking free, running away. there isn't any room left for them, anyway. Do you think of me, or you're trying to ignore the fact that I ever existed? did you lock me in one of  the dusty corners of your mind? do you talk about me to strangers, or you never mention my name, not even in your head? On a scruffy piece of paper, and an old pen, my oldest friend, I wrote and wrote and wrote, Words, sentences, paragraphs, And pages. I wrote why I love you, I wrote why I shouldn't, I wrote what should I do to forge you, I wrote about how I couldn't. You of all people, know how much I fought, how I fought too much for all the wrong people that I could no longer fight for the right ones when they came. I can't fight for you. I w...

I open my eyes lazily. A small amount sigh escapes my lungs. I get up, and search through my things. In a small box, a folded letter lies there,  safe and sound. I unfold it and tightly hold it. The ink is faded, just like the face of its writer, just like the memories of its owner. I'm dyslexic, The words I'm reading don't make sense to me. But I read them over and over until they do. I read them over and over and over until the words are legible again. I read them, To make sure that they're true. Because up until last night, II still think of you. And I wonder, Do I cross your mind at all?

I walked along sides the river, asking him where he was taking me. He gently flowed. Shimmering in the bright sunlight. I was captivated, mesmerised and totally amazed, By the calmness of it. As of it didn't carry the smallest of weights, of sharp rocks or heavy burdens. Patience, my dear heart.  The agony of not knowing is almost too much. But I will walk with him, I will wait for him. I don't know why I didn't ask yet, but when you're on love it doesn't seem like you have a choice. I give my heart easily, that is my fault. Now I'm tired. The river's silence is more than I thought I could tak...

I spent way too much time explaining why i'm quiet, or why I prefer my own company I spent much time justifying why it's ok to be myself and my motives. i sometimes feel like a map that's been folded too many times. the ink on the creases has faded, and i'm impossible to read. Up until the moment where I realized that I don't owe anyone anything, especially that no one really cares, they're just curious. Especially that they don't bother understanding rather than judging you. Or wanting you to love yourself differently. This rare genuine connection, you barely come across anyone who just wants you to become better, to love you on your own terms. So when you find them, hold on. Even if it hurts, even when you're not completely sure. After all what other options do you have? Tighten your grasp,...