• baddiexmegh 126w

    Love is like a tattoo etched upon your heart. It can never be erased completely. You can cover it with the brunette locks of yours or the varied coloured sleeves that you’ve chose to rest your heart upon for the day, blue being your favourite.

    (This is ridiculously long, I know. But, words are never sufficient to describe love, are they?)

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    An aubade for my poet

    It was a while ago,
    I fell in love with a poet
    He used to name his poems after me
    His verses told the way my eyes glinted
    when I was happy
    The way my lips perked up
    into a radiant smile
    According to him,
    My smile was a girandole
    of infinite stars
    He even painted my doldrums
    With utmost perfection
    Used to say that I was his precious something
    I used to chuckle and
    Say, “I am nothing special, silly”
    He just used to smile
    And that darn smile
    Spoke volumes that he never could
    He used to stay mute, while I rambled all over
    He always loved the sky, used to say that it’d rain
    Whenever the clouds cry
    A strange way to see the world, isn’t it?
    He used to strum the guitar strings
    And used to dance his fingers,
    Along the piano keys, quite artfully
    As if it was nothing at all
    I had asked him a million times
    How he had learnt everything
    His silence greeted me again
    No matter how much I wanted to slam my door
    On his face, I never could
    I just used to sigh and let him in

    That is the thing, you see,
    When you fall in love with a writer,
    He’d never let you forget him
    Even if I say that I’ve moved on,
    I can’t help but read his poems
    when the day dies
    Read his words etched in letters
    That he used to send
    In the old-fashioned way
    For, nobody could fathom him
    Like words did, not even me

    We fell in love when we were mere teenagers
    From silly love-sick poems to
    Profound ones with
    metaphors clinging to them,
    All about love, we grew up
    I now sit, with a faint smile etched onto my face
    People ask why I haven’t moved on yet
    Ridiculous question, is it not?
    I close my eyes shut,
    my vision blurring with tears
    As I ignore the banters
    Screaming at me to forget
    It was some silly young love, they say
    If only they knew, love, if only
    It’s been a few years but,
    I still hang around him whispering,
    “Love, when you fall in love with a writer
    You’d do anything just not to let them die
    You breathe in their words
    Feed upon their dead scent
    Anything at all, to keep them alive
    Within yourself”

    He stole my heart and I let him keep it
    As an eternal souvenir, without a doubt