Stay Forever

The loss of our love is more painful than physical pain. And we all wish them to stay with us until we are alive. we become more vulnerable towards love, As it is so rare to find real one even though it is abounded and free.

I know they will be a day;
When you tell Goodbye;
And it is going to be a pain in the ass;
I keep wondering how would it feel;
When you’re gone;

We have spent so many days and nights;
Now the night would get longer.’
Wishing the morning never to come;
I am spinning myself with crazy thought;
When we spent our days last summer;
The days diluted in long walks;

With big talks and blindsided small ones;
The nights were dead silence;
As our breath made the loudest sound;
We were just regular partners;
Hoping to spend our life together;
But the fate has its dance tunes;

To compel us to hire a new path;
I have come a long way being on your side;
The soft kiss, as your fingers rolling over my face;
The glittering flowers you picked for me;
Hours of silence sitting off facing each other;
Thinking who will talk first;

The love and hate fights;
Made us strong and wanting more of us;
Now, as you go into the radars of darkness;
I keep wondering how would I see you again.
Would you come visiting me as the brightest star;
The moon or the breeze which flows inside my window;

Still, heart tells I am not ready to let you go;
Wanting you to be part of our life and me;
So, I am not scared of darkness;
Knowing you will still find me;
Now I find myself more selfish;
Trying to change the fate of letting you go;

And wanting you more to be alive;
Now the room where you’re resting;
Makes me sick and tried feeling colourless;
The bed and white curtains mocking me;
Still, my inner voice says “I am not ready”;

Letting you go;
As the time runs its countdown;
Please Stay my dear;
So that I could take YOU entirely inside me;
And we never part again;

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  • Sangavi
  • Being In Love is Being in the second life of the fantasy; I keep myself drunk in poems where I live a life of all the poets;
    Emily Dickinson, ‘Much Madness Is Divinest Sense.’
    Anonymous, ‘Fowls in the Frith.’ This poem, which is around 800 years old, is ambiguous
    Oliver Goldsmith, ‘An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.’

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