She looked at the moon.
As if it spoke.
Silently of her emptiness.
She smiled.
...
Mind, a whirlpool of thoughts.
Each entangled in another.
In stories, reality & dreams,
In truth, lies & imaginations.
...
He silently slips in,
The intoxicating dose of his love.
In his own sweet ways,
...
She was poetry.
He was prose.
They met at a few sentences,
Those were the best lines one ever wrote.
...
Peace With Reality.
In me,
I found you.
Memories stored,
In every cell,
And every speckle of being.
In me,
I found the wound.
Old, dry, yet fresh.
Painful, forgone,
Yet intact.
In the journey,
of self.
I found me,
Every step outwards,
Was a step inwards.
In the abstract nothingness,
I found me,
Evaluating it all,
Like a third person.
Impressed, yet disturbed,
Proud yet concerned.
Connected yet so aloof.
In contradictions,
I found meanings.
Of life, and after,
Of peace and disasters.
In you,
I found me.
Insignificant, purposeless,
Ignored and prosaic.
Like a moment that wasn't born.
Like a feeling that never existed.
In this non-entity,
I found peace,
Made with reality.