The coffee has gone cold already,
a layer of cream silently settling itself,
just as I settle myself in a corner, silently...
a book between my thumb and forefinger,
but I'm not reading.
The sun has set long back,
maybe some two hours back
and I realize that by the darkening room.
Somehow, even the darkened room
is a sort of comfort, a solace.
I keep staring at the clock in a fix.
The handles never move, it lays still
just like the thumping of my heart,
which feels numb after all this time.
Paulo Coelho screams from the paperback
which I hold a tad bit too tightly
scared of letting go of one more aspect.
He tells me of the Zahir
and makes me realize once more
that I lost my Zahir.
I feel myself moving unwittingly to my desk
gulping down the coffee in a go
and taking out my diary,
I scribble something that's incomprehensible, even to me...
"The world isn't a wish granting factory "
The poster screams at me
from across the wall.
I nod with a heavy heart, "But we all wish it was, don't we?"

I was never as mesmerized by mysteries,
as I was when you became one.
From your "I smoke to die"
to the best/worst day of your life,
every essence of your presence
was mesmerizingly beautiful.
From your drinking till you drop,
to believing that the eagle loved you,
to proving that you are not a rat,
you were always the perfectly flawed one.
Underneath that emerald eyed reader,
surrounded by piles of books...
you were still the little girl,
who blamed herself for her mother's death.
who still doodled white flowers everywhere.
Miles could never have been more correct when he compared you to a hurricane.
You left, but with yourself,
you took away, the crime partner
of the Colonel, the greatest prankster
and the love of Takumi and Miles.
But, I could never forgive you
for breaking your promise to Miles...
If you could, would you, come back
and continue, that unfinished "To be continued?"

They say that souvenirs
are the reminders
of moments that've passed
of times that have gone by
of people who stayed
and the people who left

Maybe, that's why Grandma
in her late 60s, still serves food
on a small steel plate,
before having a morsel, to remind herself
that even in his absence,
Grandpa would forever be present.

Maybe, that's why mom still
flips the album with the curiosity of
a fifteen year old girl, who had
dreams and aspirations which are crushed
The album reminds her of what she was
and what she wanted to be... Maybe, that's why, dad quietly threw
the bunch of his paintings and writings
Into the winter fire, leaving the comforts of a brush for the artifice of a computer
Because his idea of a souvenir
Was burnt up ashes of his passion.

Maybe, that's why, I glance at my journal
Flipping through scribblings that
Don't even make sense to me now, for
the creative in me lost to the rational me
And in those arrays of poetry and stories

"Here's to the ones that we got"

I flip through the pages of the paperback
and that bookmark falls down.
As I bend to pick it up,
your face flashes in front of my eyes,
and I blink fast to remove it. "Cheers to the wish you were here, but you're not"

You see, the only thing that you left,
apart from your absence, almost reminds me....almost, of your presence.
Because memories are misplaced shreds of time.
"Cause the drinks bring back all the memories.....Of everything we've been through."
I hum as I keep the book back.
The bookmark tucked somewhere in the pages,
just like your memories tucked somewhere
In the recesses of my heart.

Could you hear me out,
If I'm too tired to shout?
For there are words unsaid
That are crowding my head.

I don't even know what went wrong
But somehow, I lost that song
That lighted up my soul and mind
Those lyrics ....could you help me find?

Could you help me here,
For my mind is blank with fear...
But you just stand and stare
As I drown in despair.