Monday, 2 September 2013


What you are and what I am, is not very different. 
Each time I open up this space to write to/about you, I end up at a shortage of words to put to my feelings, where what I'm feeling inside is a calamity. You've always had that effect on me. What you are is no one. I still, to date, think where I went wrong. Sure, you stated otherwise, insisting on taking the blame for the entire hoola-hoop. But you have to understand, that what you felt, was a consequence of my doing.

When I think of all the times I spent talking to you all day and night, it seems like a different time altogether. The velvet of your voice, our laughs, arguments, Skype conversations. It's almost like I can smell your perfume from the last time we met. 

I'm lost. Effin-motherfucking-lost.
You were my new poem. 

Fragmented love, 


  1. Let it go. as beautiful as it seemed, that's when in starts.


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