With you, love was a language I learned.

Can you come back, to teach me, how to unlearn it? (A poem)

I honor our shared memories 
at its grave.
I revisit it to the point,
the count of visitation 
slips my mind.

The act of remembering you 
is what all I have mastered
— calling it my only true art. 


Sometimes, you cross my mind
like an old fragrance,
misting on my lonely days
and mournful nights.
Carrying me to revisit the time
when love flowed like a river,
and you felt like forever. 


In my dreams, you pose your question 
"Do you still miss me?" 
— "Did I ever learn to forget?"
is what I answer. 

With a pause, you solicit my opinion 
"How does life feel,
when you have no one to share it with?"
Now the turn to pause is mine,
with deep thoughts and blurry eyes
I utter, "I'm never alone,
your memories accompany me
when this ache refuses to set me free"

I still stay 
as I'm bursting with things to say,
but as I awoke,
shattered are the dreams
of my sleeping mind.
— It resembles, resembles the dreams
we saw with our wide-open eyes.


The voidness inside me
screams your name,
making me regret this
cruel game of love's exchange.


A piece of my existence 
is what I left in your hands,
as a window for you
to peek into the scenery we painted
— not with colors but with heartfelt emotions. 


The way you filled my days and nights
with your presence, 
is what all I miss,
in your silence of absence. 


With you, love was a language I learned,
each alphabet not merely studied
but engraved in my heart. 
A language, I could only wish
to never leave your tongue.
A language, that is sung 
only by the tribe of two (past) lovers. 

A language, that I speak in silence
hoping you to come back
by listening to my 
invitation of  
can't-we-give-it-an-another-try?
Perhaps, a cry?

A language, I wrap around myself
like a hope
that begs me to stare at my phone
all those restless nights,
thinking it will brighten up 
with your name
once again.

A language, seeping into my very being,
beneath the skin,
giving me hopeless hope,
maddening me with its endless scope —
tying me with the maybe-rope.
"Maybe, the next text will be from you.
Just maybe, you are missing me too." 

Somedays, to unlearn this language,
I exert every attempt.
Yet, I'm never exempt.
And then it dawned on me,
I hoarded everything to set me free,
in a box named lost-love
and placed a lock outside.
Now unwillingly willing, I lost the keys.

I know, it hurts to be this hollow
but now, my fate is
all I have to follow.

Source: Pinterest

---

Author's Note:

I hope you all had a happy melancholic reading.

As always, thank you for diving into my head fictional world, where grief is all my pen knows to spell.

With a tiny wish that you all learn a language of love crafted by you and your loved ones.

–Shana.

---