I am just words.
The ones that used to drift in
through the windows of
your dreams
on starless nights.
The ones you once
danced with in the
mango-stained monsoons.
The ones in which you
first saw my face.
Destined to be loved. And hated.
I am the same words.
The music for which
is lost in a maze that's lost
in memories of pain.
The taste for which
you lost because they
wanted to fill your hours forever.
The ink for which
you spilt because the colour
never changed.
I am still just words.
Replaceable, and replaced
by the dictionaries
whose covers promised more.
Beaten and battered
by the pens and matches
you used to erase me.
Hollow and unfeeling.
Ever yours. Never yours.
Yet feeling hollow and unfeeling.
I am the words you erased
Before you read me.
Comments
"mango-stained monsoons"
"Beaten and battered
by pens and matches
you used to erase me"
Maybe being words aren't such a bad thing after all!
So happy to see you here again. It's been ages. How have you been?
Thank you for your kind comments.