Sepia

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That’s the thing about old friends. Instinct becomes your first and only language when emotions stay shrouded behind cooled gestures.

There are layers anew to peel off, bespoke of tense energy. But unexpectedly, a collision opens a floodgate of unspoken sentiments that simmer for an instant. Time goes back and in your heart you know that there can never be a second round. But you imagine a once over, desperate to pick out an alternative where barriers don’t need to be broken down, where your laugh is louder than the wind and the music isn’t a sanctum of restrained emotion.

But time doesn’t stop and the last vestiges of the sparks remain in the pointed scrawls lurking in the latent mind and the splinters of memories tinged with sepia.

Wisp

A wisp of thought it remains,

Walking in unannounced,

A distant echo of the whispers exchanged

Of the breaths shared.

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A wisp of a memory it remains,

Floating without connections,

An unconscious gaze into the dreams wished

Of the promises unmade. 

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A wisp of a love it remains,

Formless of definitions,

A play of lingering touches of destiny  

Of the strands of losing hope.



From the vaults of unrequited love. Written for Sue’s photo prompt.

Memory Lane

Back in the old city

Down the memory lanes

Treading the frozen times of yesterday

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Remembering our dances in rain

I can almost feel the touch of your hands.

And smell the lost scents of your laughs.

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What dissolved those moments of love?

When did one shadow abandon the other?

Why did the sands have a single set of footprints?

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No vows of staying close.

No conditions to walk together.

No binds to name the relationship.

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Yet cold winters later

These glorious summer storms,

Find your name as a sigh on my lips.


Memories are funny, indeed.

Parched Rose

I sat by the window

To write you a letter.

A ballad.

A book.

A Sentence.

Of our lost time together.

And after.

And now.

Perhaps for eternity.

Blurry eyes spill a drop on the parchment

But the words from the ink flow incessantly.

Of promises.

Of dreams.

Of a future departed.

Time turns back to the night

When you left without looking back.

Unspoken goodbyes.

False promises.

Incomplete love.

This letter will be yet another draft.

Not burned to ashes, my fickle heart.

But you will still know, won’t you?

And just leave me with a parched rose

With the last fumes of our time?

That Kind of Love

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There is a kind of love where you burst fireworks and sing to your heart’s content.

There is a kind of love where you hold hands and slow dance on a deserted road.

There is a kind of love where you tuck into a quiet alcove with whispered dreams.

There is also a kind of love…

A kind that is surreal

Connected through the slightest flicker of the eyes

In the most fleeting touches

Tied by a wisp of gossamer thread

Where there is a familiar understanding even after years of separation.

A kind that is invisible but in the slightest curve of the lips.

The one you carefully lock in a dark corner of your soul,

Only to bring out as a guiding star in the pitch dark.

Your ray of sunshine on a rainy day.

It is the love that never was.

It is the love that never could be.

Yet, it is the love that got lost.


There are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald