Twinkling stars shined and faded,And in the moon kissed winter night,
I tried to leave you a note,
All I could manage was "eraser dust"
I looked at the white steam
Rising and fading, from the coffee mug.
The end is near,
The ritual of looking back and saying "goodbye"
Can I skip it?
I promised
"A letter when we part our ways,
I will write to you."
And you had asked,
Your voice soaked in love,
"A poem?"
"Where is the poem?"
A poem for a friend
Who has refused to listen,
To my eyes that hide
Pain in anger.
And a poet who has tried
So hard to remain silent.
That he has forgotten the words.
"You are my poem."
I had said,
I have written you slowly,
By playing stupid tricks to make you smile.
By pretending to be angry
To make you cry.
By being not me,
But better, better than I could ever be.
By trying so hard every time,
For the perfect words.
That you think
I had faked it all along.
You are my poem,
The only brilliant masterpiece
Of a writer of junks, drafts and trash.
My poem has fallen apart,
Word by word,
It has erased itself
And my pain has lingered
In the eraser dust.
"Where is the poem?"
A poem that would make you turn back
And wave at me...
Your eyes that look stranger each day,
Your smile that I keep searching.
And a poem that's missing.
And memories like eraser-dust.
Sometimes, it all seems
Like a dream that ended so soon.
Like none of it happened.
Like you were really a poem
That someone erased.
Took the words from me
and left me a paper
With eraser-dust.
