I have written 200 poems

And not a single one of them

Is solely about myself.

I was too involved

With the music of others

And yet at the end of the serenade,

I lie alone.

And my late night thoughts

Stopped plunging into tender kisses

And pillow-talk.

For the first time in my life

I am losing my obsession with beautiful people-

 I can feel the shift in my heart.

And cordiform bruises remain

But weeks or months or years from now

My scars will fade

And stop leaving such a bitter taste.

It’s a certain kind of syncopation

I’ve been so lost in staying on expected beats

That I forgot to look in between.

Maybe I’m not a flower

Maybe I won’t grow into something beautiful

But I refuse to be something ordinary.


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