I couldn’t let go of
those whispering sounds.
Turns out I was the one who
adored perpetual darkness.
I think about the word ‘promise’
and what it means.
it becomes a strength.
But unkept promises look like
that page of a book
which is folded from the corner,
reminding you to return to that page.
In due course, it’s abandoned.
The fold doesn’t harm the book in any way
but leaves an untidy imprint.
Whenever you happen to open the book again,
Its where the care was forgotten
where it left an unignorable, lasting effect.
My voice doesn’t reach you there
But I know you hear it
My screams get numbed
But I hope my silences scrape you
a forlorn attempt to hold you
a whimsical endeavor to outgrow you
my memory poisoning my dreams
your absence obscuring my senses
when sunlight enters, I see
the bright light mocking me.
A voice always calling out to you
doesn’t matter it’s day or at night
Morning is meant to illuminate
not to succumb to dark.
Collecting souvenirs of wretched soul
my voice eventually chokes to death.