Prena Poetry

you asked me if i also wrote poetries, if i were also one of those lonely people in the world who persistently ached for the universe and subtlety fell in love with the strangers they walked across and never found them again. you stood in front of me with your eyes so full of life and rejuvenating tales, intending to read some of my prosaic scripts and applaud me like how you would do to every human you met in your life.

but i told you that i was just an ordinary poet, i would never fall in love.

i lied.

i was scared that day. i knew who you were but there was no point in letting my void speak its horrifying beauty, when it was so certain that i would never a part of the poetry you wrote and you were the only poetry i ached to put into a verse. i wore absolute grey clothes and read the same book, and barely combed my hair, because i never wanted someone like you to have noticed someone like me. and yet, you smiled at me like as if there was some undying glint of a spark residing in my tired eyes, except i had no stories to tell or gestures to spill a laughter out of you.

so, i quietly watched you walk out of the hall with some books in your hand that i had never even read. i watched you amble away, assuring myself that in this lifetime, i would never come across you. i would never get see your cleanly kept curls and handwoven cardigan wear. i would never get to make you laugh or read out to you what i wrote the previous night. and i would never ever get to touch your face or just tell you how pretty you looked even when you claimed yourself as a mess when you undeniably loved the people around.

months after that i stood at the junction with my freezing hands inside the pocket of my years old jacket, i thought about you, maybe you were scribbling down galaxies or playing your favourite song and dancing with your hands up in the sky, marvelling the freedom you had. while i would be succumbing on the bedroom floor at nights—bleeding words out of my wounds and forcing life into my failing body.

out of the play of the unforgiving fate or the massive outrage i held inside my ribcage; i saw you stand across the snowy street. you had a red scarf over your shoulder, you still had that felicitous smile subsisting on your art like face. but your hands—they were holding someone else’s. you looked so beautiful and how dearly i wished that you were dead. because maybe at least a memory wouldn’t haunt me as much as seeing you walk this life, and realizing how you would never know this and how it would crumble me all over again.