There is some truth about what what we debated during this
I may only write sad songs
Which reminds me of our efforts are in vain
Also all the songs we've heard together
Which forced me to continue to remember

Why is love so complicated?
While out there people are busy debating the new presidential candidate, looking for renewable discoveries on nuclear physics formulas, or technology that is increasingly not overtaken.
I'm still stuck in the old love, old wounds

What is love? Still asking it to my friends, who themselves only pretend to answer and pretend to know about it all
While you have to undergo a new day, hope to be happy, even though these days, but at least you will be happy, if only for today only.

There is some truth in what we always argue for this
Why do we have to meet, why we should not meet
Life running away from my life and my life running away from myself.

We share the same struggles to erase memories, forgotten memories, when we celebrate the middle of the day and night without a break, but we keep it tightly under the pillow, in a drawer in the wardrobe, in alphabets are rigid, in every day we open the eyes , everywhere in this city.
But you will go too. But you will be back as well. But I also do not see you, but I'm not too tired of waiting.

Can I look at you with hatred? With revenge? You say it's love, it's love that emanates from my eyes, being it was wound me.

But I think there is some truth in what we've been arguing
You look thinner now, and you're certainly happy for it. Your hair looks long are usually so short now you trim. But if these things make no difference, still I could no longer stroking. Feel uneasy that slid slowly from the base to the tip of the hair and immediately catch the fingers stroked. Is there a difference?

You may not know, how much I want to get back into childhood. Passing day after day, year after year waiting to meet you.
Not at this time, which was another altogether. Where every second, hour, day, time, age, time just separating yourself further and further away from my miss. Each step just make the wait more erratic, making me wait that one day you will marry with the choice and the people who picked you. Wearing clothing that may be granted, may be sparkling, but definitely happy. Standing side by side with a smile stretching, or maybe a bit stuck as to withstand fatigue in your legs, and wait on the queue of visitors who want to shake hands and say congratulations to you, but surely you will be happy. And then I'll wait again, you will have a child who is definitely handsome or beautiful, that crying makes smiles and laughter mixed with tears, the whining to wake you up at night, which makes no deep sleep, but once again, you must be happy.

I'm probably still too busy looking for ways to forget. As you know it's your last request to me. To continue to live without you. To keep going and maybe even running. You know, this is the only one in the life of the most feared. Loneliness. And we knew we would be lonely in the end. But calm down, because I will always occupy myself by writing about you. Or maybe I will not write anymore about you. I'm writing to reach you, while I would never reach you. Because, in addition to losing you-there's more to life than the poor of this writing poetry along, or I could just write a three-page poem to you, or maybe thirty pages, or perhaps a hundred pages, or perhaps one thousand nine hundred and thirty-seven pages unto you not only to read, even just for you call me upset. Or say, "Enough".

July 30, 2014irdarajat