Things not meant to be put down.

[Beautiful photo by http://girltripped.deviantart.com]

In the old times, women used to kiss the lips of statues in the twilight, praying to the heartless god of love. Nothing has changed, save for the fact we kiss old photos and computers have replaced the glorious, lush gardens of the past.

You come quietly at night to claim me, dressed in moth wings. Wearing a long cape of blood and memories. My velvet prince.

I miss you. So much that sometimes the screams I never utter cut my insides. Like a mouthful of broken glass.

You whisper my name in your sleep. You seek my face. My caress.

I call out your name in my waking hours. I need you to be here.

Yet we don't meet.

Sleep claims me like a coma. Life claims what's left of me. Onwards I stumble, determined to take it to the end.

We never meet.

Sometimes I try to imagine what you may be doing. If you are happy or sad, busy or bored.

It's useless.

It all matters. It's all futile.

I throw away old love letters and recently acquired phone numbers. Again.

You keep yourself perpetually busy.

I am tired all the time.

We both know what's going on. Yet I am talking to your photo and you are talking in your sleep.

We never meet.