By Shivika Katyal
I wake in the morning
and head from the paper,
look over my shoulder
the clock isn’t stable.
Time’s moving slow,
But my soul knows its late;
And these hearts that we own,
Man, they’re always at stake.
You and I,
we are pastime doodles
scattered on a junked canvas.
Picked up by chance,
a couple of heartsick gypsies.
I see those unsullied reflexes,
dancing towards my heart;
and I can’t help but shed to pardon
in exchange for another taste of possibility.
And maybe I’m a fool
for stringing our wrongs together,
praying for a right in this sham of bond.
You may be a menace to my heart,
but I’m gambling.
And every encounter since then has become
a lump in my throat, a blade to the wrist,
as I’m reminded that you and I will die right there.
We’re just another dream
bound to a time frame and silenced by illness.
You are blank slots in my life’s album
that I dare not fill.
I am tiny steps pacing by the window,
Loyal to a no-show.
We never did get the chance did we, love?
Danced with your eyes a handful of time,
And as I brave your loss for one last time,
that is when I overcame the guilt that comes
with choosing your own happiness.
I chose you.
I chose love.
Here is where it loses,
everytime - This feral heart.