Saturday, April 11, 2015


Only if moments were objects,
that you can hold
name and own.
Like that moment when
your eyes sunk in hope
rotated across the circumference of earth
yearning for a glimpse of me,
while I stood at the corners of a square room
grinning like a cat.
That moment when I drowned myself
in your brown eyes
hiding myself from the iridescence
of city lights.

I want to pen about that moment
in a diary, when the tinkle of cutlery
faded against the sound of your voice.
That moment when you went away
and I wanted to run to you and say things
that I will never say to anyone.
Every moment is now a page in 
my book of memories, that I named after you
Only if I could count those moments
neatly fold them and put them on cloth hangers
and wear them everyday.

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