Love. 

Love. 

The unspoken truth of love:

Uttered yet unheard;

Was too deep;

Drowning every single soul,

In its melancholy.

Dark as the cave;

Creating hallucinations

With its words unseen;

On its verge to enchant the very existence of one’s being.

Spell binding every thought alive

With its excruciating ecstasy

And its confusing complacence;

Never to be understood by man;

 Not ever to be.

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Cold Blood.  

Cold Blood.  

Cold blood,

I watched it slither through your veins;

Seducing with warmth,

Killing with patience,

I could feel the deal;

As your lips brushed against mine;

I could feel the sweetness

And sense the poison passing through.

You were welcome,

With all your intentions;

As warm as the snow!

You were intriguing like never before,

Sending chills down my spine.

Not to forget the intoxication

With which you bound me.

You killed me;

Slowly, yet enchanting me.

Your voice like the knell;

The fear;

 I could feel in my bones.

So lovely was the feeling

To be dying with such ecstatic pain;

At the hands of a cold blood.

Hurt. 

Hurt. 

And then as I turned around, there she was across the street completely engrossed in what happened to be a Dylan Spark, flipping the pages as if they were made of glass. Intensity building in her eyes, as though the next page would shatter her into pieces. She was keeping it as casual as it could have been; in blue. A blue dress it was. All that was worth, happened to be between the book and her; as the coffee lay cold, craving for attention, like an ignored child.  I stood there awestruck by what I did not know. Of how much I wanted to walk over and say a word, there was something that froze me. I could not move, not even a finger. All I saw was dark black hair, ignorant brown eyes and lips which were moving as though chanting a prayer.  As her lips moved, I caught on to a few words.  “You deserve better”, she read.  That few seconds felt like an eternity, more like those cliché moments in every romantic movie.  Time had slowed down only to stop, as though it had decided to halt at a particular moment and never start again.  I was only to imagine what she might have sounded like as she read those lines.  It repeated itself, that moment, in my mind, like an echo in a cave.  I felt myself in a melancholy in knowing that it was just a momentary satisfaction that I was going through looking at her. Even what was left of the satisfaction was soon overtaken by a feeling of despair. It began to hurt. “Looking at her hurt.”


Dream. 

Dream. 

You sat there next to me, holdings a torn piece of paper with something written on it; crumpled up.  The uniform lines were more than evident on the crumpled piece. The blue of the ink, so prominent in the pale pink of the paper. I could feel you quiver as we sat staring at the blankness of the scene that lay at our disposal. Somehow my eyes seemed to have latched on to the creases of the paper, the unfamiliar creases that were visible through the few strands of hair the fell on your face. The paper, seemed to have found a home between your fingers which held on to it like a mother to a child. To my utter realization, I feel a drop splatter on my arm. You were crying. You mentioned someone in your phase of lament. It made me feel relentless as I could not do anything about it even if I wished to. I could feel myself drowning in melancholy, the pain was unbearable. I was in a pool of sadness and with that sadness I welcomed my day, I open my eyes only to realise it was all but reality; I was only dreaming. 

Blood.

Blood.

The creak of the gate seemed familiar.  There were cops around searching for evidences,  rather like stray dogs looking for food, looking around and under the bushes in front of the yard of the Villa. The door was left open as though waiting for a long awaited guest, which was highly unlikely in this case. I walked in through the doorway.  The familiarity was disturbing, because I couldn’t remember how and when was I familiarised to the place.  I got flashes of images running through my mind; I felt the tingle in my fingers as a memory was being revived, as if being dug out from the grave.  There was a girl, leading the way, holding my hand, pulling me along.  The vision was vivid, her back facing me,  and then she turns and everything is blank; I don’t see her face.  I was in pain now and remember being in pain then. I could see myself fall to the ground and felt a strange pain at the back of my head.  The last thing I remember seeing was the rugged carpet and was now sad I couldn’t see her face. The same carpet was now stained in blood. 

Smile.

Smile.

All I heard was your chuckle as I sat there dumbfounded looking at you, making myself look stupid with all the human noise I sat there making. 

The wind blew away the smoke that found its way out of the the burning tobacco from the cigarette that was left dangling at your fingers.  I didn’t realise myself staring at those hurt brown eyes that looked back at me; without a blink. In those fraction of seconds, I noticed more than could, more than I ever would; the mole that made itself look so prominent right below your left eye, which I reckon would even make Venus insecure and the way your hair caressed your right cheek only to leave me envious. I wondered;  fraction of seconds was all that I took? To see you? Understand you? I knew that moment was temporary.  But I still found myself in that moment, smiling at you, for that was all I could do; smile. 

Darkness. 

Darkness. 

I could hear my own heart beat as I lay my head on the table. 12.52 Am and I found myself moving my pen across the paper, trying to think of something rather extraordinary.  I thought to myself, “Why did I stop? Why did I ever stop?” as I stared blankly at the uniformly printed lines on the pages of my journal.  I found myself looking around to find something for my mind to latch on to and bring to life on paper but in vain; All I saw was darkness. The pillow on my dank and depressing bed, however, could be seen due to the little light that was cast on it, tinting certain portions in glow while the others remained in darkness, creating a visual, that I recall was pleasing to my mind at that moment. The ups and downs, the highlights and the shadows formed by the creases of the pillow creating their own artwork, made me wonder if beauty exists only because of light? But then I was brought to the realisation that without darkness light would cease to be. I wondered why man then feared darkness and loved the light? I wondered if he had ever tried to comprehend the beauty of darkness?  Perhaps not. I did not blame him though, for the beauty of darkness was far too vast for the human mind to fathom.