It wont BE soon before long

Its been a year and half, and a little bit more, since it closed. That warm feeling, which made all emotions sink like ink on blot paper... I can call it mine no more.
And since then, LIFE hasnt been any smooth either. Its no surprise, given there's not an hour that dare pass when I dont think of her. Things feel like yesterday, and then a moment later its a scribble on a forgotten papyrus. Silly me, but true.
I had tried some funny ideas trying to work my way around this hurdle life brought me. Or I brought upon myself, says the new me. But no amount of being busy came to assist. Neither did the trying to forget routine. Nor any other syntax.
All it takes is one call on her part... Or even anyone asking, if things got better between us. They see hope where I know none exists. Silly them, this time.
I need a way out. It.must come fast enough, because after reading my own diaries from the last few years, I realised this is ME all over the place, a person I would have been ashamed to know I would become one day, if I had known then.
So dear blog, here I am, venting, hyperventilating... And in no less dire need OF a ventilator apparatus, which in this case, is an  unfortunate you. I agree, I have to accept and move on, and dear blog, lets hope it works out for both of us. I want back some OF that old ME... The one that laughed so loud that someone's deaf grandpa would wake up and ask who's there... The one that would strumm the guitar once again to Ave Maria, Greensleeves, or Lovestory, and ek je chhilo raaja... The one to spin a poem to calm any emotional upheaval... And one that tried to hold on to the sweeter and curious bits of life through 3rd person humour and photography. Oh that, I miss so badly.

I dont know much about what is going on with my present life, to the extent that I must say, 'Enough, this void in me making the surface cringe with

Fever and tears

A class is on the move.

Familiar symbols cast their long shadows on the white screen,

They come and go

As he speaks on, making various gestures,

The listeners paint images on their own;

But this is not all.

The voices are just apologies to the tympanum,

Like the cries of a thousand hungry beggars

Outside His Majesty's palatial gates.

But the King listens only to a symphony,

Played in his heart from memory,

A child prodigy played the castle's damp walls

into liveliness the night before,

The echoes have wound, or have they?

Handel. And the Escapist.

Soon,

My mind drifts away,

My clock unwinds,

My feet retrace,

And I am at the edge

Of a familiar white bed.

And I miss you again,

Intensely,

Like Love Long Lost.

I feel my feet against the cold floor,

The splash of a thousand golden drops

Against the ever unstill surface,

They come of the fountain

And plunge into the water

Over and over again,

For pleasure unknown.

Me too,

For love's labours

Are neither measurable nor expressible.

I touch your soft skin again,

My lips caress the strawberry,

My stomach sinks

When your chocolate nails sank deeper,

I wonder if I could taste them.

My hand is disobedient,

Climbing down your back

Strides on the waves.

Vice surges.

Loves potion instills further.

The sweet poison is prepared,

And it is hot,

With steam dancing erotically all over the brew,

Lovemaking awaits.