It's Not Poetry

And,
when they watch me,
sitting alone in the corner,
with my head buried in my diary,
they ask me how he is.
And, my mind wanders off,
back to those days.
When, his mind was the
map to all our destinations,
when his hands guided mine,
into galaxies that were
full of stars and dreams,
when his eyes showed
how much there was to love
and such little time.

He was like the hope
from a parallel universe,
which glowed the brightest
on the darkest of days,
even though he was
surrounded by things that
just reminded everyone of how wrong everything seemed.

These days, when I pass the lanes,
we used to walk and dance in,
the thoughts of the past
come back into my mind,
and I don't know if I come to
the same places again and
again to remember everything or to forget it.

But, since you've left,
it's seems like the home I had,
doesn't exist anymore,
and I wish I look into those
eyes once more,
or get tangled with those fingers to remind myself, what being home felt like.

They call this poetry.
But, it's not.
We're not poetry.
Because, poetry ends.
And, us. We haven't.

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Image Source : Pixabay

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