I promised myself that I won't write to you anymore. My dreams should become deaf to your name and my walls should erase your shadows forever. I don't fail to keep promises but this time I did because nights when I bit my nails, made irregular patterns on my bedsheet, I realized I was still not ready to let you go.
And this was the only way I still had you.
I had you in words plucked out of poems and in metaphors drawn out of diaries. You were complete with me in my creations - like fairy tale beginnings and dramatic endings.
I had you in scratched lines across palms and crumbled papers below the pillows. You were not a nightmare , but like a melody which lures me to see dreams within dream.
I had you spread across me like a beautiful massacre. Growing through my mind but I mistook it as the prolog of a reality I was going to live. Till it was very late for me to realize that you never stayed to make it real.
It was only Me. My pen. My words.
I wish I at least once could have made you real through phrases and metaphors.
At least once!