Every sentence in his prose,
each line, each verse in his poetry;
all the anecdotal inklings
exuded the same passion as me.
Once I loved a writer, perhaps
because of the similarity.
My comfort zone, indeed;
someone who understood me perfectly.
I immortalised him in my journal;
just as he did to me in his.
In every stroke, in every writing,
in every paragraph, in every gist.
We were gray; as he was black, and I, white.
He completed the thoughts in my phrases.
He added the rhythm when I write.
He filled my lost words with deep sentences.
But the world we live in
wasn’t always about beauty and art.
The routine that we were once comfy in
became boring as we lost the spark.
Every period and comma,
each of the punctuations,
all stanzas and paragraphs
never matched the inscriptions.
Like black and white, we clashed.
Our thoughts became incomplete.
When we lost the rhythm as we write,
our feelings started to retreat.
Once we thought what we created
was a happy ending for a love story.
But as we go on with our writings,
we, ourselves, were the tragedy.
Gone were the complementary figuratives;
my comfort zone, now a stranger.
Gone were the words that used to rhyme;
now just memories I’d cherish and linger.
(featured image courtesy: litpark.com)