Letter to my one night stand.

You left me, 

like the jews left their houses during World War II. 

Hurried and rummaged. 

Hickeys on my neck 

Like a half-drunk cup of coffee left on their table. 

My lips, bleeding, 

Like their taps closed absent-mindedly

While their last shower. 

My hair, messy, 

Like their apartment floors in those last minutes. 

My oversized t-shirt, wrinkled,

Like the bedroom linens the night they fled.

My eyes, crying aloud yet unexpressed,

Like their infants shushed 

When they were woken up in the middle of the night.

My soul, longing, 

Like the walls filled with memories framed, 

only never to see them again.

My plea for affection, unanswered,

Like their telephones which kept ringing.

My body, utilitarian,

Which already served its purpose,

Just like their houses. 

And I, now, 

Empty, left behind. 

I’m a contradiction.

I’m a contradiction between calm as dead and alive as . Some days I wake up at 3.33am just to see if ghosts whisper. Some days I jump stairs to see if I got a little taller than the previous day. Some days I smile at strangers on my way and some days I make faces at infants. Some days I even write d instead of b and laugh in my head for a while; laugh so hard that I can’t hear if someone’s calling me or maybe I do but just choose to ignore. I don’t know. I’m dipolar. So the other “some days” include lying on my bed rethinking if existence even has a meaning at all and overanalyzing if the world is crazy and if the system is consuming our creativity.  An astrologer once said to me that I change decisions 18times a minute and I contradict him as I dwell on uncertainty. 18 is too certain and so is 3792 and so on. I dwell on abstraction. I dwell on the colourful blurry version of love and faith. Some days I choose words intricately so they rhyme like I’d choose rompers for my baby; Red is a must on Sunday, while some days I’d pick up my pen and just keep scrawling random words until their impressions are either on the core of the planet or in my mind repeating itself again and again and again until they’re engraved just as my inability to unlearn seeing time. 

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