On moving on

I miss him when it rains
How we would go out
On a walk and return
Soaking wet.
A soggy cigarette
Dangling on his lip
Like some promise
He couldn’t keep

When it is all fog and dew
I miss him as he knew
To make my cup of tea
Milky, sugary, strong
Steaming hot with ginger
A cup in my hands in his
And warmth which lingered

Amid falling leaves and wind
He would play guitar and sing
Soulful songs of lost love
I would be angry and shove
Him, seal his songs kissed
In autumn he is most missed

Summer was a bad season
We had worst of fights
For no rhyme or reason
He shouted, I cried
I miss those making up nights
Those sweaty hugs, so tight
That I breathed through his arms

He left me waiting, and wanting
Isn’t spring about new beginnings?
I go out with random men
To cure this love obsession
I put my heart on a swing
I do not miss him in Spring
Because every spring
I move on from him

My dear blabbering brethren

Please note that my ears are not bins for your disposable small talks. You all speak just for the sake of speaking. Some day my brain is just going to explode. Red blotches of its remains will display art on the walls. Over the course of time, they will dry up and stink of unfulfilled dreams. Ideas, brittle, sharp, broken into million pieces will seep into the carpet, invisible from naked eye. Then when you walk, they will prick your feet in a bloodless way, enter your spine and remain lodged there. You will suffer from a weird disease where when you will open your mouth to speak, you will not be able to figure out what to say. It will bring in a new era known as ‘Fish Age’. And you will rue and wonder how the person who remained the most silent in your group somehow managed to have this lasting a last word – albeit in a self-destructive way.