Returning Souvenirs

You say you can only offer friendship

for my love,

I say l don't want it.

I want love, love in big forms,

love that fills every atom around me,

Love that challenges every equation.

I thought you are the one,

the one with whom they would define people.

I'm just fine to ask you to return everything,

Everything that I gave as souvenirs of my love,

Which you received as a friend.

Starting from my starings and nights waiting for your responses.

I turned to be someone I was not, for you,

I spent my time, analysing and making hypotheses on you.

So return my brain cells used for that,

the blood that rushed to my veins,

Every time I saw you.

I want my health and thoughts that I wasted for you,

The souvenirs of my love.

I have murdered my love for you,

One fine night,

I have buried the carcass of my love

In the gardens of hopelessly wandering ghosts.

The songs that I sang are waiting to be played on my recorder,

And I want you to return the efforts taken to expand my lungs,

To sing for you.

You should heal the hands my clock,

Before they die,

from the long waits.

And you ought to return,

Every mile I walked just to get a sight of you,

Every sounds I produced to get your attention,

Every story I rewound for you to listen to.

But I need a place to hide all these,

If not, every time you come,

They would come out and

Consider ruining me again.

Playing with my emotions,

hiding the truth and,

Sabotaging my life are their sports.

So I want you to return them before

they secure immense power,

Before they start growing

in me again,

And becoming a storehouse,

Of ill-fated souvenirs,

The souvenirs of my love.

A. C

Comments

Shuli’s Love

Shuli washed her hair twice that day. One for her love to cleanse all impurities of reality and one for herself. She took a nap twice that day. One for love that took her melatonin, And another to forget. Shuli laughed twice that day. One on behalf of her tainted Love, And another on her botched brain cells. She cried a quarter that day. Half a quarter filled with anger, and the other half with shame. She danced twice that day, One for lost time on love, And another for her love for dance. Shuli wrote twice that day, One for her heart and Other for her brain. She gave two hugs that day, One for her wet pillow And another for herself. Shuli played hostess twice that day, One for her pain and the last for her sanity.

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