I loved you like a poem,
Long abandoned, and scribbled
On the torn page of a dusty notebook.
No rhyme , no meter, no ornamentation.

But the ink that spread from the letters
Smelled like blood,fresh and warm.
There were traces , of tears may be,
For they have burned and left marks.

The tongue of the poem,
Though unknown, strangely,felt familiar.
It is a memoir, perhaps , who knows?
Maybe it's an epitaph, for the poet himself.

It's unknown , strange , but I couldn't
Abandon it there anymore .
I carried it in my heart , buried in fact
For I didn't want anyone else to read it.

But from where I buried it, it grew roots.
The words have turned into memories
And it bloomed in my soul.
I could see the faint shades of the poet
Scribbling it across the page.

I have seen him before , somewhere.
Was that me? Or some one I knew?
I saw him running , madly into void.
He was crying and smiling -pure ecstasy.

Ah! I could feel the same, am I running?
What nectar could bring this sweetness?
What pyres can bring this pain?
Is this forgetfulness?
Or the end of the beginning long awaited?
I can only remember: I loved you like a poem.


















© arundasvadu