Source: Ibrahim Fareed on Unsplash

I shall stop writing now,
These words have lived to their promise
And conveyed aptly every emotion I felt
And now they sit in a pile
In the corner of her bookshelf
Layered with dust; never read, never touched
Somehow still symbolizing my place in her heart
For I could never be her favorite piece of art
That she comes back to again and again
And reads to find herself in there

But not all efforts were in vain…
I could become that pitiful love letter
Not replied to but kept as a souvenir
Kept in between some book forgotten
Something to which she’ll later return
To be reminded of memories,
And to remember, how special she once was to someone

The ignorance shall hurt, but what can I say
These words are her anyway
I have burned them to ashes
They are where they rightly belong
The ending was never mine to be plotted
I was just another chapter,
It was her story all along
Scribbled, for they could make her smile
--Never a means of catharsis, never meant to heal--
And that’s all that ever mattered.
That’s all that ever will.

I shall stop writing now,
Rifts within have ceased to drip blood
I feel empty now…of emotions…of words
This life feels redundant
It ought to stop after a few welts
So, I shall carve out my heart, wrap it in a box
And gift it to her with a side note—
“It’s yours. Much like everything else”

We shall be together till eternity
I had put my soul in the poems
And I have her immortalized in these words
O! They’ll be touched someday, I know…
And my world shall be in my arms
And finally… will rest in peace, this wingless bird
While the poems will keep singing forever
The greatest love story - ever read, ever heard.

.    .    .