I enjoy an ice cream after two long years
I don’t share it with you anymore.
A friend gifts a piece of clothing
I desperately yearn to say it all
But not anymore.
The melancholic notes of “Sunday’s illness” haunts Netflix
Not anymore will I tell.
For eight longish years I’d poured my life into your hands
You let it slip, like grains of mundane sand.
A few half baked crumbs of sympathy you flung my way
Just as one would throw scraps of waste to a stray.
I’d lapped it all up like god’s perfect nectar
Wagging my tail as I always did
But not anymore.
You are no more the perfect muse
For months my frozen words gasped to breathe
Some pathetic bits of hope, some lost love, some reflections
But not anymore.
