Lying

 

I

write

somehow. 

About you.

For how can I not?

You have embraced me; touched me so. 

My skin craves your fingertips very desperately, 

as if their absence costs me my sense of feeling, my sense of knowing, my sense of me.

I 

cry

sometimes.

Missing you.

How can I forget

the effervescence of your breath?

Washed bedsheets still carry your scent; I am yours again

on those rainy afternoons when my coffee cup sits alone waiting for a laughter.

You

went 

away 

silently. 

A loud eternal

void that gulps my wuthering soul

sounds like you, and I cave in everyday in your hope. 

Strands of your worn-out sweaters, inks from your old notebooks, where do I not find you my dear?

You

left 

alone 

messily.

Light carries your eyes; 

ocean waves yearn and yearn and yearn;

the walls whisper your newest stories to each other;

the equations of your soul shine during the night in an attempt to awaken you. 

I 

stare

nowhere

wearily,

because you are gone –

lifetime of dreams shattered away.

In horcruxes somewhere, a tiny whiff of yourself 

waiting for me to be with you in destinies in our control, where I lie with you. 

I 

wait 

for you

everyday:

a part of me burnt.

I count my breaths, your lack of it;

words I form recover you in the most ugly way,  

but in my prose, you and I are musing, laughing and smiling; you are lying with me.