This time , my heart has tripped out from my chest and found home in a stranger's palm . He squeezes it and tries to soak it in holy water , to make it new again . But it has cracks , endless cracks , nasty nightmarish stains . Stranger , you look like you know the difference between experience and mistakes ; love and infatuation and things that always confuse me . Tell me stranger , have you found love yet ? You tell me my eyes hold secrets and are deep , my palms have creases made of silk fibers , voice dripping with stardust and I look familiar to you . Do I ? I have always held more than seven colours on my canvases , always more than 26 letters in my poems and I've held more than one funeral for every chunk of myself I lost to the void at 5 am's . Are you one of those colours ? Letters or Chunks ? Do you also write poems about unrequited love and let the world believe you're just a poet , and inhale soot when you're alone ? No , You look like solid madness . You talk about things you like with such raging passion , I want to dip my hands in blood and place them on your bare heart . But If I tell you , my eyes are just pale marbles , and the creases on my palms are made with precision of haunted knives , my voice a whisper of your scared subconscious and I look familiar because I broke you heart once , Tell me stranger , would I still look like a muse to you ?