I am trying to speak. I am trying to make these words to reach you. These words while trying to reach to their destination fall into a deep gorge in between you and me. They die by splitting into numerous unfathomable pieces. I can see the funeral of my words and I am standing here helpless---helpless to infuse life into my own words---helpless to give them a new life. But, in spite of being their God: the creator, I am failing to do so and with their funeral everything comes to an abrupt halt.
Now that I am here to write about you, I am not able to hold this pen properly. I am not able to make an image of your existence. I am no longer able to smell that fragrance of your hair---fragrance which once used to transport me to the heaven full of pleasure and delight. I am no longer able to feel that touch of your skin. I am no longer able to express that hypnotizing, mesmerizing and spellbinding effect of eyes. This deadly gorge is widening day by day and with it everything is breathing its last. Your tiptoeing no longer makes my heart to sink. The sound of your anklet no longer compels me to get up and dance. With every breath I am taking in, you are becoming a lifeless statue for me, which is not in a state to make me feel anything divine; the statue which has been carved beautifully but not having the power to turn me on. It doesn’t switches on that ‘beauty lover’ demon within me---the demon which was your slave; who danced on the sounds of your anklet. It no longer turns him on.
The beauty is lost, the passion is lost. The void is increasing. We are fading away from the scene. I am running short of paper. The pen is refusing to move on. I am your creator and here I am: destroying you; destroying you by not writing about you.
Let this void annihilate you.