Death of a Writer:

For like one entire minute
                      I miss you.

I miss the gentleness of your smile
The precision of you laughter
The baritone in your voice
And the peer in your stare...
I miss that eye to eye thing that you love doing so much..

(I have to mention that so that out of everybody who reads this, I want you to be sure that it is you I am talking about--- it's pro'bly you am speaking to) 

Am not sure how I got here

I remember being ignored

I remember hurting

I remember praying

I remember trying (again)

And I remember letting all go...

I remember bouts of dejavu creeping in

I remember a heart of steel building up

I remember walls of anger trying to close up on me

I remember at intervals, wondering why?

But I remember fighting it all...

So am not sure, how I got here.

I remember the sincerity of our conversations

I remember being your friend

I miss that.

Then I remember the retrospection

The vividness of this moment

And I loathe you to bits!

I am not sure how I got here

But standing here makes me realize

That am standing at a crossroad

A crossroad of ...

... so many questions.

So now, beyond the words 'I miss you'

             beyond silence

             beyond zoombing

             beyond wondering

             beyond asking and you staring

             beyond You.

I welcome you to witness, the death of a writer 

             buried beneath the willow 

             is the remains of an intricate situation

             and yet another piece of effort and confidence summoned to trust a stranger.