If it were for the sake of pen and paper, the amount of stories and poems I’d write for you would be endless… endless in the most infinite way.
It was a cold afternoon on a Monday. I reached your side just before my hands felt cold. You were looking from afar with the most innocent expression. Funny that at that moment we were on the phone and you refused to end the call until I was in an audible distance.
Some people are just so cute… you’d ask for one thing and they’d do it a hundred times more… minus the last time before I’d scream “ENOUGH!”. You calculate the most simple things I wouldn’t bother thinking twice.
Remember how depressing winter was? How could I forget spending days without you? I just want to know if you’ll be here for spring… will you visit soon? Will we be merry just like we were last summer? This spring ought to be the best.
It’s almost June, where are you? You don’t return my calls, are you sick? I keep wondering how you spend your days and nights… my days are dull and my nights are even duller. I am living between the most darkest four walls of the century. My windows are painted with tar… the sun has stopped rising ever since you left. When will you visit?
How far have you traveled? Is it far far like the oceans? Or are you around the corner and hiding? Will you ever visit?
Caught you looking at me once or twice,
Should have known then you weren’t so nice.