The poem of Love

When the evening sun turns all bloody,
The hero on screen mutters, “True love doesn’t exist.”
They say, “You’re the one I want to die with...
Spend forever with...
When I close my eyes, you’re the only one I see.”
So romantic, they are.

But I’ve closed my eyes a thousand times...
And all I ever see is the afterglow—
fading, quiet, unresolved.

But when the bleeding sun bleeds no more,
When silence spreads like mist,
I remember...

Your fingers, gently parting my weary hair,
The way you’d tuck the blanket over me
On cold, unkind nights.

How you’d offer me the last piece of chocolate,
Though the box was still full—
as if the gesture alone had meaning.

Your breasts—not seduction,
But a place to die peacefully,
Head resting there as though war were done,
As though I were a child in a cradle,
Eyes locked on a mysterious wind chime,
Swaying with secrets.

Your arms—fortresses from the tales of old.
Your scolding face, the one even cigarettes feared.
The tight-lipped smile
That spread across the hospital bedsheet
like sunlight escaping through blinds.

You tried to rearrange my room,
My wardrobe,
My life—
each time, in vain.
And every soft, exhausted “What will I do with you?”
meant more than any vow.

The tea you made—spiked with your strange,
Witchy love—was always warmer than it should’ve been.

And once, when my lips met your forehead,
Tears ran down your cheeks
as if they had somewhere to be.

You chased my whims,
And my whims chased you,
A never-ending game in a thunderstorm
where the lightning only meant
we’d hold each other tighter.

And I do feel like writing poems—
Of love, of you, of moments.

But they say, “True love doesn’t exist.”
So I open my eyes... again.

- by wreetojyoti