I wrote about you one night when Hypnos was awake and all seeing.
A night when every corner of my mind was iridescent with your being.
With eyes too alive to rest, too awake to dream.
(In all candidness, a part of me did silently whisper that I was but dreaming.)
I wrote words to you too that night, undoing the crippling fragile seams.
I knit a web of inside jokes and humour, eternal moments and incessant feelings.
I poured my heart into black ink that night and poetized my dark soul,
painted galaxies, captured nebulae, gathered shimmering stars and coloured black holes.
I carved words that would give you courage in covert moments when you become your own undoing,
in enigmatic moments when your shattered faith eclipsed the sun in you.
I etched words that could make you feel at home when you are away and unraveling
like the miles between us are too illusionary and untrue,
for you always owned a part of my soul.
That night I crafted words; you were loved, cherished and wanted they told.
I sculpted words that would make you feel you belonged,
I thought you were a long forgotten childhood song.
I bared my soul to the whiteness of paper that night,
drenched in every emotion that could make a person blind
Blinded by the dust in my eyes I cried that night for it was all a waste.
The right moment to tell you those words never ever came.
You were gone even before you ever left.
Now I think of it, you were never there.
I keep these words with me for they are a lesson I learnt,
as I keep your words, carved out and hollowed in me they burn.
You will never get my words now, or my tears or my soul.
’tis all buried within me now, ashes to ashes; dust to dust.