The Scraped Window

For the child inside the broken house
with the paint faded,
the door loosened
the window scraped
due to ages of damage
beyond repair,
the world is a dull sight–
a messy, unhappy place

There are no faces, only figures
and kindness is a language unheard of
for the child inside the broken house
with the paint faded,
the door loosened
the window scraped
due to ages of damage
beyond repair

“Why don’t you clean the window?”
asked a girl who stops by
“The world is colorful, not clouded by tedious dust.”
“Why don’t you fix the door?”
asked a boy who lives next door
“It’s pretty dangerous to leave it unlocked.”
“Why don’t you paint the walls?”
asked a man who is just strolling
“It makes the neighborhood ugly.”

Little does the girl know
that the window is dirty
because she and her friends keep running
over the pool in front of the house

The boy does not remember
that he was the one
who broke the door
on his visit years ago

The man does not suspect
that the child has no money to pay for paint
and the child has no one to ask for help
because the child has lived there alone for quite some time

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Five years, seven months, twenty-six days

That’s two thousand and sixty-five days in total

Trillions of hours, minutes, seconds

Six seasons of Game of Thrones

Dozens of conversations

over dozens of glasses

Before a line is drawn

and the book finally





October 21


You see through my eyes | you think in my mind | you step with my feet | you walk where I go | you live in my shadow | you breathe in my air | even when I’m alone you are there | there | there | here | here | here | taking over my life | taking over me | taking over the core of everything | shaping me | breaking me | moulding me | shaking my ground | cutting my ropes | draining my heart into nothing | quizzing my brain towards losing | reducing this love into something | shameless | eternal | repetitive | remembered | while really all I need is to take that one leap of faith to leave you on the land of wishful thinkings and the courage to stop

You, you, you

Is it love what I’m feeling? Is it infatuation? Is it yearning or is it desire?

Longing for him is an ancient routine. Years have gone by without dreams of him!

Oh, but the arguing and jest – the caring and the rest cannot possibly mean nothing at best!

Vast my heart be for his mistakes; for his dominance, arrogance, humility, and tenderness

Err we might be from time to time, but together we’ve given a thought to a second chance of friendship

at friendship it pauses
a scene I imagine
a word I cannot write

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