The answer to Love
is not love
in this age.
It probably is
A place where you find yourself
Thrown away
All alone
Almost depressed
Looking for answers.
Alone but still judged, condemned
By people to the very act of pouring love
In the first place.
The answer to love
in this age
is not love.
(Or it never was)
It probably is
Calculated hate.
That was the day
My body capsized
Into the tumultuous sea of your love.
You ask me
How I remember?
That's the day
Poetry started swimming with words.
I hang your memories
On the string of emotions,
as if they are wet photographs.
Rescued from drowning
In the waters of oblivion.
In some,
You laugh like a mad person.
In some,
You weep like a mad person.
While as,
Some just hang there in your absence.
On an average
It is said that
Humans take
Two hundred crore
Photos each day.
What astounds me is that
You are in one of them.
Only.
Only one.
It was raining leaves
by the roadside and
All she could think of were
the exorbitant expenses
Of the coming winter.
There are days when I read poems
And then don't talk to people for months.
Then there are days
When I talk and don't read anything for months.
Somewhere in between
Lies the difference
Between the world and me.
