Separation.

With fingers entwined, hidden behind the two,
Flashes of fond memory buzz past you-- the separation,
You make your way through the crowd,
Looking away- probably at the puddle in the corner.

You consume the dim, yellow streetlights;
The smell of the night- you find ourselves bottling it up for posterity.
His fingers now cupping your face, your eyes fixated on his,
You know how the impression of his intense gaze still
Burns the side of your cheek. To be called beautiful,
When all you think is you are a fat, unimpressive existence.
To have your lips speak to another's in no language,
You suddenly know the distance approaching
Will just make you desperate- So you kiss him some more,
Until you let go to smile and hold his hand one last time,
Say goodbye and feel the weight of his absence immediately,
But you know you'll live, you know there is no end-
You're never over, you see.

The next morning's sunshine makes your head spin,
Like you're hungover on a memory, a fantasy,
Something you can't see for months now. You leave
On a flight and land somewhere. Jump into bed,
And realize you're gone. So, you cry
Into your pillow carefully tucking him into your thoughts
Like a poem you now know by-heart.

Move.

You're the platform

And me, the train.
I can't wait
To wait to look
At me waiting
An unwanted wait
For a man
Who never waited.

She is a poem.

Moon lined dreams merge in sad innocence,

For all she knew was poetry in its entirety.

"Fragments", Freud suggests. But poetry

Doesn't work that way. Skip a line,

Skip the flow. Skip a word, skip the poem.

Explaining to a band of hot-headed barbarians,

What poetry means and how an empty set

Signifies void and incompleteness, isn't

Easy. Given that these idiots weren't 

Accepting, whatsoever. Our apple-pathways

Collided at the right time, together we 

Transformed whatever the moon lit dreams

Spoke of, in colours unimaginably bright.

She was poetry: played a tune with her fingers-

The rhythm was imagination, the style was 

As free as spirits be. She was poetry: beautiful,

Hardly understood, structured, whole. She

Was the verse that flowed into another like

The river meandering and finding its way

Through the crevices on permanent rocks.

She inspired poetry alongside being one

Herself. Love, giggles, home-all the same.

She taught and learnt like a poem handed

Down the years, forever-changing in its

Meaning but intact in its words. And I

Look at her like a poem I can never create

But yet love dearly and wholesomely

Because poetry lives in entirety,

Much like friendship.