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Dance of the wounded
You were not someone who came here like the human equivalent to my fairy godmother to heal my broken something. We can look at our lives like a painting . I already had this life beautifully painted , to which you could add a few strokes here and there to see if there was indeed any corner you could brighten up with your set of colors. Maybe that is how life goes , by realizing that you can add new colors to it only if you look beyond the colors you have already had of it.
.
Trust me, I have become color blind instead.
There is no other yellow and orange I can see than that which I remember seeing in the specks of your eyes at sunsets,
there is no other red visible to me than that which I saw in the edges of your eyes
when you cried,
and there is no other pink I can see than the hue of it I saw on your cheeks on snowy days,
and there is no other green I remember than that around your wounds,
and the blue of the sky and seas looks much unreal that the blue in your sadness I had seen.
.
And for those who told me that it could never be love, they can look at us like two people working on a painting with same or different set of colors, trying to understand what shades the other has got and it is their efforts in bringing forth a final portrait , the blend of colors which matters because this co-ordinated togetherness of different colors is what indeed is timeless.
And when they think it's wise of them tell me to move on, I ask them what do they really mean, because its me knows that this picture will never fade away. I may only find somebody else with another range of tones but then the older colors will also be a part of the new whisk.
And when they tell me I will find someone like you, I hope by now they know that it would mean to have a copy of the original. There is no such thing as finding someone like someone else.
.
However, all I have in possession tonight is a jet black sky glaring square at me, this white bed sheets on your side of the bed, where the wrinkles and folds stay undisturbed diffusing the little bit of your smell left on it and I toss on sides in search of you tonight because my body aches with your absence .
© All Rights Reserved
.
Trust me, I have become color blind instead.
There is no other yellow and orange I can see than that which I remember seeing in the specks of your eyes at sunsets,
there is no other red visible to me than that which I saw in the edges of your eyes
when you cried,
and there is no other pink I can see than the hue of it I saw on your cheeks on snowy days,
and there is no other green I remember than that around your wounds,
and the blue of the sky and seas looks much unreal that the blue in your sadness I had seen.
.
And for those who told me that it could never be love, they can look at us like two people working on a painting with same or different set of colors, trying to understand what shades the other has got and it is their efforts in bringing forth a final portrait , the blend of colors which matters because this co-ordinated togetherness of different colors is what indeed is timeless.
And when they think it's wise of them tell me to move on, I ask them what do they really mean, because its me knows that this picture will never fade away. I may only find somebody else with another range of tones but then the older colors will also be a part of the new whisk.
And when they tell me I will find someone like you, I hope by now they know that it would mean to have a copy of the original. There is no such thing as finding someone like someone else.
.
However, all I have in possession tonight is a jet black sky glaring square at me, this white bed sheets on your side of the bed, where the wrinkles and folds stay undisturbed diffusing the little bit of your smell left on it and I toss on sides in search of you tonight because my body aches with your absence .
© All Rights Reserved
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