How artistic we become with our hearts broken. And that is the story of my life.
Entangled in my thoughts, I find it funny how we are stuck in love. Moving, yet still.
All I am left with is blue ink and bluer papers, and hues far too dark. Stains of memories cherished on sheets and blurred lines crossing paths.
My life is but a metaphor for bandages and scratched crevices. A simile, you can call it for love lost but never found.
Oh, I no longer write for myself. It’s for thee I grieve and long. Maybe, I seek a greater perhaps but for now the time prolongs.
Our story never started to end and that is that, I shall not say any further.
My veins are etched with ink stains and my fingers with blood, how awful it is for me to romanticize red mixed with blue. For purple scars don’t heal, just disappear through and through.
My undying thirst for love cannot be gratified for I have epitomized it to be something beyond my reach. So with my words I lose myself. And with every alphabet, I am lost. Maybe, I was meant to be my own person. But, that only time can tell if I am my lost jigsaw puzzle; waiting to be fixed and completed.
By Saumya Rastogi (Fiction)