In a box, under my bed

We were in a dream. From dusk to dawn, in a spot on your shoulder. We continued to dream in oblivion, unrelenting to wake up. The clock ticking and the seconds sprinting- no, they couldn't catch up with us. We were dreaming to the beat of your heart.

We were in a dream. From dusk to dawn, a song on repeat. We were drunk on the music of rain, we couldn't sober up. Reality was a parallel world, existing someplace else. It couldn't burst our bubble.

We were in a dream. It felt real. And although there's nowhere else I'd rather be, nowhere I'd rather  be than in our dream... 

We woke up.

I wonder if you've noticed

I'll say it.

I’ll say it to you.

Because it's December.

It's December, it's that time of the year.

It’s that time of the year when constellations of stars don’t compare the chandeliers of lights suspended in the night sky.

That time of the year when the snow falls, then slowly settles, like a blanket of scintillating diamonds.

When you find yourself enveloped by the studded night sky and the snow-covered street all the same.

So, I’ll say it.

I’ll say it to you.

Because amidst the chilly winter, I feel the warmth of a thousand fireplaces.

But I’ll say it anyway.

I’ll say it because sometimes the flames of fire die down and my body crumbles in a shiver.

I’ll say it because it hurts.

Because it hurts to not say it anymore.

But saying it hurts too.

It hurts when the broken words perch upon my lips, like sharp-edged shards of glass.

It hurts to part my lips, and to utter the words.

It hurts when the pieces cut deeper into my skin, and leave scars in places most vulnerable.

But it hurts even more  to purse my lips in silence.

So I’ll say it.

Because not saying it hurts more.

I think of you. I reminisce of  times gone past.

Of the many Decembers.

It reminds me of us. Of what could’ve been.

I think of the way we were and the way we’re not.

I think in clichés.

I think until the clichés collapse.

I think until I can. And then until I can’t anymore.

So I write.

I write another clichéd poem.

Of our love.

It’s easy at first.

My typewriter is used to it by now.

The letters that spell your name are the keys my fingers have touched the most.

And sometimes, when I forget, my faded fingerprints on the keys remind me.

And so I write poem after  poem.

Until I can’t.

Until the keys rust and the ribbons run dry.

And so I stop writing.

I wonder if you’ve noticed that I’ve stopped.

I’ve stopped writing about you.

I’ve stopped writing poetry about you.

And I’ll say it because it’s December.

I’ll say it because it’s that time of the year.

It’s that time of the year, when you stopped loving me.

And I’ll say it because it hurts to write poetry about you.

But having said that, let me just say

To write poetry that’s not about you hurts even more.