Sometimes when you hold that pen,
To write the tales of love in between those empty pages
I wonder,
I wonder when you will hold my hands
and merely scribble a few lines on them,
Lines promising this universe.
And when I tell you that I don’t want anyone to care,
That I don’t want either you to care,
I wonder if you will ever cross the circumference around my body
and actually care.
If you will hush me to tell
that not caring is one thing you cannot do.
If you will stitch those scars on my hands
with the marks on my back
like you stitch those stars making a constellation,
A constellation you would call yours.
If you will ever paint the canvas of my body
With the colors of your soul,
And if those colors will wash away with every season of rain.

But there were times when I loved myself more than my lovers.
And those were the times I didn’t think of you,
Because, yes, if you reciprocate what I feel,
You will just be a lover teaching me how to kiss,
But not to kiss deep enough to gasp for air.

Remember our handmade paper boats with our dreams scribbled all over them?
Paper boats we made with a dream of sailing away,
Like adolescent lovers.
But when summers came,
They blew away and it was then I realized that summer just wasn’t my season.
That the warmth cannot hold us.
And then I waited for the winter to fall.
I turned cold.
Towards you and my love.

And since then, I am keeping the cold inside my heart
hoping not a blame on me.
I am keeping the ache of all those unsaid words which the summers couldn’t melt,
Resolving that when the last star in the sky shivers and breaks,
When that star wilts and cries,
I will settle with the tales you wrote.
Hoping, one day you will cage the tumult of my heart in those breathless poems,
Tumult I would say,
Belongs to none other than me,
Wanting you to atleast teach me
The rhymes of your lips,
Like your verse singing of multitudes.

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