Poem at 2.30

In the neon blue glow

of my phone screen

I see that the time is now 2.30


and this is the only thing I’ll be certain of


I tried to sleep;

tried to tuck in disbeliefs

and melt the uncertainties

with the warmth under the sheets,

willed my lashes to lock in

the camera roll of everything we’ve been

only to see you materialize

in the darkness.

I tried

not to think of our last conversation

now a part of a yesterday

still lingering

in the half-emptiness of my coffee mug

and the telltale trio of cigarette butts

around the open page of Coelho

telling me

“If you’re brave enough to say goodbye

Life will reward you with a new hello”.


I’m treading on the unkempt garden

of our memories

and I can’t help but be a child

lost in the tall wild grass of our history,

turning over every word


like rocks

just to see if there’s meaning

hiding underneath

even if the more jagged edges cut

into me

I tried

not to be so surprised

when all I found were almosts

decaying into the soil of time

feeding into the roots

of weeds and flowers alike.

Darling, here’s the thing;

you’re beautiful isn’t the same as I love you

I want to kiss you isn’t the same as I love you

you’re perfect isn’t the same as I love you

just the way

I want to be with you isn’t the same as be mine


I want to be with you isn’t the same as I need you


I want to be with you isn’t the same as I love you


I think I’m in love with you is almost there

but it isn’t the same

as I love you.

All we’ve left for us

are words


like rocks

and perhaps these will crumble to dust

that’ll remain

in our souls’ crevices and cavities

even after the storm swirls to its conclusion

but never will they erode into nothingness.


I’m not certain I want to say goodbye

and maybe every wave of a hand in my story

is supposed to be a farewell and not a hello

but all these futures

will have you vining your way around them



into all the colours you painted our story with.

So lay me down in this garden.

It’s now 2.41


my mug is half-empty

and it’s almost half-full.

Every rock will be unturned and

the tall grass will wilt and

we will stop watering the blooms,

and since we’re both afraid of goodbyes

let’s make up one last almost.

Image Courtesy : www.frasi-belle.com

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