Listen To Them

In separation from you I turned to the moon, I turned to these stars. The sky is aware of tears. It has seen that unending stream of tears flowing down through my eyes. The moon has been my companion when you weren’t. This moon is so beautiful, just like your face but it listens to me patiently, unlike you. It just listens to me. This sky is the witness to my pain---the pain of separation. This sky has always embraced me to hear my voice---voice which has always carried gloom and agony with it. This sky has let me to shed my tears---tears which carried your reflection, whenever I shed them.

I have talked so much about you with the moon that it now knows you better than me. If I know the dark page of your existence so does this moon, this sky and these twinkling stars. These stars seem to be twinkling, you see them. They are telling you that we know you. They are talking by twinkling. They are telling you how I have suffered in your separation. They are telling you to feel that pain of that cruel separation. The moon is fading away just to tell you what the separation is and what it brings upon one which gets caught in it. 

Do listen to them. Do hear what they are trying to convey. Do they tell you that how much I love you? Do they? If they do, then please tell me. I want to know if they have been able to look deep into my eyes where, only you exist: your reflection. I want to know.  If they could, then why can’t you? Why not? I see you in everything. I see you everywhere: If I can why can’t you? What is hindering you?

The moon, the stars and this sky have got to tell you so many things---listen to them. Listen: they speak the language of love soaked in separation.

They speak of you.

They speak of me. 

STATUE

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.