Bottled Up Thoughts

Goodbyes are the saddest part  even of the greatest stories. Hard to voice and harder to leave. They say we never give enough time for a loved one's departure. So I turned you into poetry keeping you alive between the lines. Now I think of you in multiples of twelve. Twelve minutes past our first meet, we exchanged nervous smiles  across the beds. In the twenty-four hours that followed, We bonded over a million sicknesses  and sour soups. I faintly remember, It took you thirty-six failed trials  to rightly pronounce my two-syllable name. Forty-eight hilarious jokes later, we knew we were stronger  than our illnesses combined were. Lying in the critical care unit for sixty days straight, we now wake up to pills and hopelessness or mostly the latter. Admiring our seventy-second sunset you told how when young, sunsets fascinated you the most; I couldn't un-see that spark in your eyes. The eighty-fourth sunshine set me free from that room which forever s...

Sorrow has never been a home's own. While the world's busy accusing it of its crimes: deaths and despair. On one dreary day, it would certainly walk into your open doors with no knocks. Then, Let it not slide in through the tiny cracks, then break your walls; slowly first and all at once. While you permit it to pass in freely give place to sit, with ease. Ask it who it is or how was its day, And how long it wants to stay. Like the gold polished medals  put in the display, duely embrace its presence. They're both pointers of your patience, unfolding tales of how you've survived strong till the very end of the race. Seal it not behind the lockers of your anxieties, Let it out in the open spaces, Let it free. Long walks, or bed time talks with your gooey guest, are okay. Never to be forgotten: Time lapses, and sooner than you think Sorrow would have left your home; Left you. A guest was all it has ever been, was never meant to stay. Over and over again, Sorrow shifts shelt...