As I sit by my study contemplating of ways to immortalize you through my words, I often lose track.
You never asked me to create a fable out of you or maybe you never wished to be a part in mine.
So I wonder, if you even read what I spill with ink that calls you line after line.
That in how many other ways do I romanticise your being and tie it to my pain.
In how many other ways do I complete what will anyway be perpetually incomplete.
Or in how many other ways do I distract myself to not create a mess of my thoughts.
I would never know.
Sometimes I am rendered helpless for not finding enough words to portray the unsaid.
just dumb to have not expressed it correctly.
And many times, to have never let you know
that all of my poetries were for you.
The personification of each of your reflexes have been etched in my memory.
Those never ending series of quickly fading dreams that speak of a parallel world where I read poems to you.
The words from those poems are now stuck in my throat.
And start slowly blurring the reflection of reality in my eyes.
All of my poetries seem a faux pas from not finding their way to the the one they belong.
Hence, sometimes, just sometimes I give up on my vow of keeping my distance with you.
Because whatever I’ve written becomes complete only when it reaches you.
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