I sit in your favorite coffee shop
staring at atomic scribbles I
conjured in the name of writing.
Words choke inside my mouth and
ink keeps dying on the tip of my pen.
The diary begs to be devoured but
nothing comes to my kidnapped mind.
They lie when they say longing makes you
a better artist and my scribbles remain
remnants of poems I wrote effortlessly for you.
My nomadic eyes light up like Times Square
every time I see a silhouette that resembles you.
I pass on apologies enveloped over weary smiles
to the women I stared for far too long.
One had your eyes,
other wore that parka I never liked,
another bit her lips just like you used to.
For me, every woman has something of you,
but somehow they are nothing like you.
They wear parts that are remnants of your body
and I try to borrow some love I spent over you.
And we all fail miserably in the misery left by you.
I don’t sleep well anymore.
The bed remains clean and your side, empty.
You become a memory and glide over
to the corners of my bed and I lie down
on your lap and we talk.
We talk till the moon disintegrates
itself into the morning dust,
till the memories fade away into the dawn with the
promise of coming back tonight,
till my eyes forget the existence of sleep
and make love with insomnia.
Insomnia now, my love, is nothing
but remnants of the nights
I spent lying in your arms.
Now, tell me, if you are happening again to me,
or should I just make peace
with the world sans you?
Tell me, if I should wait for my poems
to come back along with you,
or should I just throw away
these diaries and pens and the hope?
Tell me, if you are coming back one night
and not just your memories,
Or should I just fill my bed with
nothing but memories of you?
Tell me, my love, if existence is
much more than the idea of you,
Or should I just live in this empty world
full of remnants of you?