February

With winter half-gone

and spring yet to come,

I’d like to think  I’d better fall in love.

 

Like many a times in the past

when I convinced myself of

being that useless romantic,

again,

I’d like to think I’d better open my heart.

 

But all the while, I’m too afraid

of the heartache it carries along.

May be I have lost that cue for sweet insomnia.

 

February is a bruised time.

Not because I never do things the way they are meant to,

not because I ignore the air around.

February is an old rugged pajama,

worn out, unusable. To me.

 

Unsaid things have decayed inside my head in the past.

While those said have caused explosions.

Either way, there’s a fragmented casualty.

You’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.

I guess there’s no holier way to get damned at all.

 

 

 

 

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