brief as a struck match.
But what if we have already
burned that fleeting light?
The ancient, unbreakable
promise you keep talking about.
Haven't we both learned how
words fail precisely where
they are most needed?
You philosophize distance
as a comma.
I wish I belived the same.
But commas are not always
merciful.
What if they continue when
we would rather stop?
You say your heart would find me
in a sea of strangers.
Mine would recognize you too.
But won't we be those
familiar strangers full of
contemplation again?
Your fear of solitude in love
is justified. But again,
ain't love solitary at its core?
Yet there were moments
when our solitude overlapped.
so precisely that it
almost felt like belonging.
But if the pages must turn,
and chapters must end and
books should be closed.
Let it be.
Not every story is meant to
be concluded.
Some are meant to be
suspended mid-sentence,
mis-plotted and half-baked.
So they can be returned to
without the burden of an ending.
So I will tell you this-
we will not meet again.
not because I doubt it.
But because I refuse to reduce
us to being subjects of a
bogus promise.
Hence, let the memories die
out of hunger. Ink dry
after being orphaned.
Deprived of any touch,
the tenderness of hands must sulk
and heart must ache-
For silence has always been
the question, let solitude
be the answer.