We don't bind to a clumsy spine
These hands do not seek the touch or warmth of another’s grasp.
For no one turns to a pair of begging hands, with a grain of sand and expects gratitude.
But they do not let go when they rest in a pair of palms that feel like home;
They will not unravel when secured through fingers that fit like a puzzle.
They stretch like an open book, with sections for writing,
and do not revise its inscriptions for a shorter sentence,
just because a different pen is raised.
All because a different read is asked for.
I do not stand on my own in this chapter.
But my words are all I have, to cut through its margins -
To bring you back to where our story thrives.
For I do not throw a punch, as well as an insult,
I cannot place you in my shoes as well as “You hurt me”.
I’ll only say how much you mean to me in between the lines, in metaphors.
So do not scratch the surface like it does not go deep enough to be felt,
because you scratched after all, and it leaves a mark not to be ignored, not to be corrected.
I dare say I guessed the road would darken and stray,
when all the fiction dropped and your fairy tale ending unmasked itself as a new page.
Reality never bites hard enough to unblind you, but wake up, wake up…
The book’s closed but it does not conclude, nor will it bind you to its clumsy spine.
No one stands at the end of a lost cause and says, “We’ve made it”.
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