I am sitting like a stooping c on a chair and thinking about the number of times I have let motorcycles run over my spine.
My eyes are moored at the sequence of water flowing from a faucet at the bent contour of a basin, drop by drop.
It's quite strange how a thought comes whispering into your ears, how you have minds of all sorts speaking to your mouth.
I fear that the bleakness that follows a breakdown will take my life one day, or I would burst my nerves thinking about what I could have done.
I ain't a biased writer, I had spread my arms and loved immensely, wrote poems about it, irrespective of how society perceives such men as emotionally weak and irrational.
Departure of love is a sad one and my toes turn cold thinking about how one day it'll just go away. Like a fleeting moment, ready to drop dead once you close your eyes.
I went after what I felt passionate about, without hiccups or two thoughts, without being afraid of the closeness a bond demands.
But never have I ever met a person who gulps down food and says I didn't eat anything, just two morsels of wrong doings dipped in Jalapeno sauce.
And it makes me regret the poems and letters I had written while keeping in mind the false idea of a person I never met.