Unmade-
I write the lines
in my head
of poems lost
of books unmade.
The madness lives
of unwritten lines
of unwritten lines
for the empty pages
wither and fly.
Purple clouds
above my head
of unwritten lines
of unmade book.
I don't Know-
So this is me sitting here writing about you, about someone I barely know. We don't talk really, not much. Exchanged a few" Hi's " and " How' ve you been ?" You are just a stranger. Nothing more. Nothing less,I don't know how many star dusts you are made of, yet I find myself writing about you. I don't know what's your favourite colour or how you like your coffee. I don't know what keeps you awake at 3 A.M or the melancholic melodies that sings you off to sleep.
I don't know yet here I am writing about you.
Remembering You-
I frantically run through my draws finding my old journals flipping pages to the first time I mentioned you. Any details of you would have calmed my racing heart. I couldn't remember. I was desperate to find any thing written about you- I remembered the lines from the books you read,I remembered lines of the poetry that sung in your heart but not you.You were fading. Little by little you fade as I run my fingers through the pages losing grasp to my sanity. I wanted to remember you, I wanted to remember the boy walked the moonlit road
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