Wilted Words

As I look at the shoe box hidden under my bed, I wounder, how absurd it is to try to tuck someone's entire existence in such a small space. How could all the memories fit there, all the thoughts and late night conversations, All the fears, the nicknames, the inside jokes, And the secret codes. They are just ink on paper now. They're just soft whispers that I barely remember, They're nothing but remnants of a dead body of the love that we murdered. I don't dare glance or stare at it, This box, Is the monster under my bed. This box, Is the voices in my head. Of maybes and what ifs, Of what could've been said or done. Of the words we couldn't say, And the things we shouldn't have said. And still, I wonder, Will I ever be while again ? Will I ever have the heart to erase your memory, And create myself again, Apart from you. Will I ever stop searching for myself between your words ? I can't be the only one living like this, I don't ...

In a year or two, none of this will matter. It might take longer than you expect, or maybe it won't take as long as you might think it would, after all, time is a man made concept, and anticipation seems to alters the duration of waiting for things to end or begin. There are a few things, though, that would help you endure the following sufferings,  The suffering of maybe . .. The uncertainty.. The doubts creeping up on you every day, every minute, every second... The potent yet pale fear of not ever being who you want to be and that all your efforts and attempts are futile and the you will never be enough... The unfamiliarity of how cruel and uneducated or indifferent you are some times, The strangeness of your own self some times, Or how you tuck your flaws and enemies safely in your bed every night, snoring, non bothered and insolent, not allowing you a good night sleep. The enormity of these things will overwhelm you, at some days, I am not going to lie to you. These...

It all ends in a haze. The rush of adrenaline, No longer existing, The memories fading They fade, Gradually, The withdrawal symptoms persisting and everlasting. It all starts there In a swarm of bustling voices, Where the intersecting chatter clusters in the air, Rapidly, Making up a dense veil of all kinds of conversations. Two sets of eyes make a brief eye contact, That lingers, But unlike chick-let movies, Time doesn't pause and the earth doesn't stop rotating and butterflies don't flutter gently in thier stomachs. Two sets of lips say familiar words that feel foreign, Unlike the secrets they once shared and the kisses they once stole, All words stop at Hello. Two sets of limbs once intertwined with the promise of forever, Now wave awkwardly at each other, Not daring to do more than that. Two bodies keeping the right distance of strangers, Not daring to inch closer, Not even an inch , Fearing the overwhelming surge of wanting to be closer than t...