Still unending.

I realize,

The more I talk about him with an unregrettable way,

The more I heal from the inside,

The better I breathe oxygen, rather than breathing sadness.

The memories, feel like highlighted parts of my dusted books.

All that is left, is for me to reach the last page,

And it’s been five years, and I still can’t make myself read the end of this story.

When you remember a car scene. Remember Me. 

If I repetitively talk about that 

Time you clutched my thigh 

On our first car date and how 

It fucking scared me and you 

Can clearly see it in my wide-eyes 


Then let me recall it as many 

Times as I want, because that

Time was when I realised a part of 

Me fucking loved it. 

A part of me wanted you to try

It again, but the me who was 

Surprised was too powerful. 

So, yes, let me replay that scene, 

Because whenever I do, it’s an 

Appreciation to the awakening 

Of that version, 

The version who wanted more of 

You, more of your touch, more

Of everything you can give, and 

Give back everything in return. 

A man who found his escape.

He cherished his books.

He deified the words that displayed delicately

in the fragile papers.

Scenes traced between the sentences,

opening a door to his imagination.

He denied the existence of the page numbers,

for he feared reaching the last page.

‘Every story has an ending’ – a quote he detested.

Why can’t they just leave me in the middle, as I dance between the passion of the author’s interpretations of life before they found a conclusion?

So one day, they did;

You’ll find him laying on a creamy couch; asleep.

And today is his wish’s 25th anniversary.


His sweater.

“Tomorrow’s a bit windy”, he said, “don’t wear something warm”, looking at her with a grin.
“I’ll be too cold, you know how whiney I can get with the cold”, she responded.
“No you won’t, i’ll take care of that”

Next day, he went to meet her and saw her hair dancing, sending warm prickles to his cheeks. He snuck behind her, stretched the end of his sweater and trapped her inside.
“Snuggle in, angel. One sweater is enough, don’t you think?”
Her arms found their way through his sleeves, and he held her closely, burying his head in her neck, smelling fresh watermelon.
I love you – he thought, but he couldn’t say it out loud because he felt more than that.. More than love could describe.
“I love you more than love itself”, she said, as if she read his mind.