I was born a poet, you were born to be a muse.
Most of the times you did not understand what I was trying to say, but that didn't stop me.
I wrote and wrote; about your eyes, your voice, your way of loving me.
I was obsessed with the idea of you, your love.
Writing about you became my new favourite pastime.
I called you my world, and you would laugh and ask me if my world had a sun of its own.
It did. It was you again.
You were my world and everything within that little world.
But how could a world so perfect thrive for long?
Soon my love began drowning you.
We knew you could only survive by swimming off to the shore.
But you held on to me with all your might.
And for a silly moment, I believed we would survive even.
But the happiness was short lived.
I watched with grief as you slipped out of my grip.
You stayed until it was impossible for you to come up to the surface to breathe.
And then you left.
Even to this day I wash to the shore to get a glimpse of you, but I return disappointed each time.
Most of the times you did not understand what I was trying to say, but that didn't stop me.
I wrote and wrote; about your eyes, your voice, your way of loving me.
I was obsessed with the idea of you, your love.
Writing about you became my new favourite pastime.
I called you my world, and you would laugh and ask me if my world had a sun of its own.
It did. It was you again.
You were my world and everything within that little world.
But how could a world so perfect thrive for long?
Soon my love began drowning you.
We knew you could only survive by swimming off to the shore.
But you held on to me with all your might.
And for a silly moment, I believed we would survive even.
But the happiness was short lived.
I watched with grief as you slipped out of my grip.
You stayed until it was impossible for you to come up to the surface to breathe.
And then you left.
Even to this day I wash to the shore to get a glimpse of you, but I return disappointed each time.
