(hi) (...)

As I flick through my camera roll, isn't it strange how everything is out of focus but you? How the blood you spilt seems brighter than the blood I shed?

her i don't know who she is, but i know you've got a new her now. do you make her laugh? or worse, does she make you laugh? is she just as cynical as I was or is she just as bright as you are? you told me you got into college and all I could think was, does her hair curl downwards too? (congratulations) does she read and leave little notes in books or does she actually watch studio ghibli movies with you? god, do you guys fight? fight about whether everything you have is just a well balanced chemical reaction, about everything and nothing at all? are you happy? how did you move on? why do you still care? It meant the world to me when it happened, was it really just another sunday to you? I hope she's everything you actually deserve. no I can't possibly wish that for you. I can't hate you. I miss you terribly. I can't keep talking to you. I wish we were still friends. I wish we could be friends.

hold on babes, lemme just put on my rose-tinted glasses to excuse all that you do or say

I like to know that I've maimed you. Is it sadistic of me to like the thought of you wondering where I am every time you cross a road? I like to know that I've maimed you, ever since you told me anything related to books reminds you of me. I like to know that every time there are scribbles in the margin of an old book, It'll remind you of my handwriting you called unreadable. If you visit The Louvre, my blood remains spilt there too, for the countless number of times I've told you about running away to France. Every time you look at paintings hung up in museums, you'll think of how I painted you our bleeding hearts. Is it sadistic to know you'll think of how I am doing on your thirty second birthday because I jokingly told you how I felt like I wouldn't make it to blow the candles on my thirtieth? Is it sadistic of me to cherish how you'll think of me every time you pick up a book, even when you're covered with sun spots and gray? tell me, would it make you wonder what could've been, if you wrote us just a bit differently? for I know that I've maimed you darling, but is it sadistic of me to not regret it at all?

Feverishly romantic how the dead are depicted by the sudden fall, a thud yet graceful fall of an utterly blue veined hand. The last blink, and the mechanical writer stops, as if a last wave to the living, sleeping on the bed when your longed lover lies on the floor, an earthly blanket over their serene sleep, a hand falls when leaving quite unconsciously towards the beloved. Its as if gravity aids the newly departed to rejoin their dead, the hand now closer to the earthly buried, where their waiting lover lies, crept over with flowery vines like snakes and brown contoured skin. The thud of a hand, dangling from the bed, now so much closer in seconds than they had been in years.

our conversations keep getting longer and I've never laughed so hard,

am i reading too much into this?

yet you are desperate for love too.

i bite back a smile when you point out that the eye looks weird. i like your shading you say, but the colors could've been darker. a fish in water for the first time, i breathe in the relief. i'm so sick of it, i wish i could tell you, i'm so sick of the mindless hearts and soulless compliments. you're so brilliants echo and bounce around this shell of a frame that was once gifted. there's nothing left yet the red shiny wrapper's still on. not for you maybe, is it too soon to know? call me out, call me out, tell me when i'm being an asshole and i'd smile harder honestly. you offer a repose to this empty gallery.

it's been 5 years and I still remember your birthday. I don't think I'll ever forget it to be honest. it's been imprinted in my brain and every year around the start of fall, I think of you. and I know I'll be having the same thoughts in 10 years time and we'll still be miles away.

Silvery sands we walked over,

Footprints smitten but never forgotten,

Quite deftly destroying the perfect arches.

And how long shall we climb the ridges for?

When the light warms the time held in our fingers,

Running through steadily, yet fast,

Shuffling of only the crushed thorns,

Our bare feet sink into the

dissolved, ghostly essence of the past,

And we sit with the light, reminiscing the fall.

and when the writer types out the final full stop, we stop too. for you and I, were only a 'we' within these numbered pages bound by a frail paperclip. what we search for is eternal, and the writer tried, tried so hard but I guess we weren't just meant the be, the fates cut our string, the paperclip was bound to break.