The words so mesmerizing,
Often etched on the stones that spell pain to you,
Hurt to you...
They are the opium drugs—
Like the annoying, pesky fly
Waiting to lick the candy floss stuck on your upper lip.

Yes, as my lips part, mist blurs my vision,
Cold engulfs my fingers,
And crimson blood pours through the pen nib.

That's why I despise them, you see,
For often it's the nightmare that graces my pages
And not the soothing hands that whisper dreams afterwards.

And, maybe, that's why
I love you, I cherish you, my friend,
For the fact that my life,
Though in numbered years,
Can never fit in the words—
the inevitable, the possibility, all of it.
Because the will to love only looks out for the light at the end of the tunnel,
And not the dark water seeping around it.

And, maybe, that's why
In the recent years,
You've become my only resort,
And suddenly my life is not numbered at all.    

   By: Shaily. K