For

He would rather,

Nestle in her tranquil smile,

Let her soft fingertips,

Trace his jawline,

Than sit with me,

On the thorny ground,

And pick up

My broken pieces,

Buring his nails

In the coarse dirt

And the soot

From my bleeding soul;

I blame him,

Not.

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The Friend

The friend,

Who was meant to stand,

Right next to you,

On doomsday;

The friend,

Whom you’d heat needles with,

Stitch up each other’s wounds,

Through the blood and the tears;

The friend,

Whom you’d sit with,

In a bar, drinking away,

The battle scars;

The friend,

Who’d hold you,

In a steady embrace

Your safe haven, during quakes;

The friend,

Whose happiness

You’d have killed for,

Ripped out your lungs for;

The friend,

Who stabbed you,

In fear, of you, meaning to him,

As much as him to you.

I build up walls.
Laying one frozen cube
After another.
With prudence.
And freeze them all together.
Unbreachable.
I smile with triumph.

But then I remember
Your smile.

How your eyes
wrinkle on the sides,
Sparkling with mischief.
Curiosity.
And shades of emotions
I never did decode.
And a spark rises.

Melting down the walls,
Into puddles.
Releasing the butterflies
To go haywire…