i.
I keep weaving stories,
On ifs and maybes,
Like a spider,
Repeatedly mending its home.

ii.
I wait,
For a miracle,
Of winding time,
Onto the perfect line.

iii.
I wait again,
For my phone's screen,
To light up with your name.

iv.
Lady of Shalott,
Away from reality,
Breathed  just fine on her isolated island,
Until she stopped weaving,
Stories out of colourful strings,
After seeing the beautiful knight,
In the shining armour.

v.
Does Musubi really exist?
Does it bind us?
Are we really destined,
To be together by the red string,
Or have we severed it with time,
With ifs and maybes.

vi.
Some nights,
I wake up feeling spiders,
Crawling all over me,
Making their home,
In my empty body.

vii.
The strings cut deep,
Through my bare skin.

viii.
I keep on clinging to hopes,
Feeding myself with,
The stories made up of
Ifs and maybes.

ix.
The mirror of the real world shattered,
Like all of my dreams,
Like the heart of dying lady of Shalott.

x.
I sometimes stumble upon the cobwebs,
And wish their colours to be red.

xi.
I wonder when I'll throw up,
All the woven stories,
And spider stop making cobwebs,
In the hollows of my body,
I wonder when I'll stop waiting,
Reasoning myself with ifs and maybes.