I was a reader and he was my favourite writer.
He talked about constellations and binary stars, relating them with his muse and his love for her.
I longed to be her.
Everytime he wrote a new poetry, I would compare myself with her short, curly hair,
Irritating her bouncy, soft skin and kissing her rosy lips.
But I was nothing like her.
I had long, straight her with a not-so-pointed nose and my cheekbones didn’t reflect the moonlight.
So I cut my hair short and always curled them whenver I went out with him.
But still I couldn’t be her because her words were like the tsunami that had broken all of his bones just to make them stronger,
And I was as silent as the breeze that was messing his dark brown hair.
He didn’t even notice it.
But my favorite piece was what he wrote on my naked back.
It was only a word but enough to make my spine arch and give me goosebumps.
It was a promise that he never kept,
It was a forever that he never meant.
But honestly, I wasn’t perplexed when he took his clothes and quietly left my room,
I knew he was going to kiss the tsunami of his life,
Who would break his bones again.
Only this time they will turn to ashes.
So next time, I read his poetry I know that her short, curly hair would still be mentioned
And her bright, green eyes would still be something he wouldn’t be able to move on from.
He’d still be finding his binary star in them.
She would still be the gravity his writings would revolve around.
She would still be his muse.
And I will still try to find myself in between the lines.
Because I’m a reader and he is my favourite writer.