If I Write...

I wanted to write about love,

A love so gentle and kind,

A love so generous and forgiving,

It makes butterflies blossom in your stomach,

It makes poets weep in between the lines,

It makes rainbows pale in comparison.

I wanted to write about friendships,

The ones so true that it stay deep within you,

Shades ever so vivid regardless of time,

It lights up the darkest of room, warms up the coldest of heart

It makes even the most cynical

Eager to take a second glance.

I end up writing about lost,

About the tears you shed losing the ones you love,

About the fear that guards and defends your heart,

About the endless time we fall apart and see things shatter and break,

It stumbles people in their steps,

As they push open that creaky door that leads them to that place,

Where drops of tears fall silently as it echoes through the long cold corridors.

I end up writing about this world,

Every brick and stone that piled up around me,

Every path and lane that led me into deceitful beliefs,

Every face that I’ve seen and loved yet soon forgotten,

Footsteps that leads in and out of that sanctuary in your heart,

Every hard cold door that slams on your face again and again,

The very end that everyone seeks but fear to discover.

I’ll never write a story about us,

For our ending is far too cliché and predictable,

Chapters we revisit yet the blank pages remain,

Plots far too complex for words to decipher,

Yet so so easily erased.