Poem : Endless and Unrequited

What crazy kids are we?
Running around, trampling over hearts
Replacing the mundane adult conversations with heavy ones stirring our heartstrings

What crazy kids are we?
Running around, trampling over hearts
Replacing the mundane adult conversations with heavy ones stirring our heartstrings
Till the invisible music fills the spaces breathing inside you
Invisible because you cannot see it or hear it, but only feel the emotions it creates blurring your eyes.
Hit a wall and then hug it because only love can support your weakling iron clad heart
You melt every single time, only to let it spill over, cool down and create a finer metal skin around it.
Let your knees buckle because only a marathon runner knows the meaninglessness of a moment of flimsiness, when you have many more miles to run
You don’t tell her that you would hate a world of only geometry and not curves
Because you would miss hers.
You would miss her scent. Ever-changing, like the seasons.
You watch her change. Marveling at the hesitancy of her touch.
She is like the comfortable scent that blends into your skin that folds into itself and makes a space for it in every moment you feel home.
Let a poet not make her love home, for there will be a day for it to leave,
And homeless again shall we be.
But metal-clad hearts survive storms and peace equally.
And are for the moment, terribly lonely.

–xx–

A few nights back, I told someone I loved them for the first time in my life.
Breaking through my silence of years. Like opening a window shut too long.
I felt dead. I squeezed out a few tears.
I should be grateful that she took it so gently and so well, like I expected her to but thinking about that makes me love her even more.
I did the worst. Falling for someone who knew the way through all the tunnels in my heart and the darkness inside them and yet chose to see the light at the end of each one of them.
She said she loved me. Platonically.
I am numbing out my feelings for now. Like extinguishing candles.
It will take me time to learn to live without that hope and that warmth.
But I did it knowing I am capable of dealing with it.
Strangely enough, she taught me that.
To be unrelentingly independent and real yet vulnerable in my love.
I should say that I will get over her.
I will. But unwillingly.
I am afraid of the cold, you see.

About the author

the weird queer kid

Socially inept just-an-adult with creative ambitions. A master at internet stalking and creeping fellow humans out. Thinks too much. Writes poetry as such. Reading. Sketching. Mentally curating great hairstyles. Queer culture. Feminism. Food. Desperately seeking a remedy to her perennial awkwardness and obliviousness about *ahem*..love and stuff.