She Doesn't Know Any Of It Poem by Sanyam Bahuguna

I loved her.
She hated me.
I still love her.
She still hates me.
I don't know her side of the story.
She doesn't know mine.
We never shared each other's side.
But from my side of the story,
She doesn't know what she means to me.
She doesn't know what I feel.
She doesn't know how much I care.
She doesn't know how much I love her, it's true,
She doesn't know the things that she put me through.
She doesn't know what she did to me.
She meant light to me.
She is my queen, I adore her.
My head on her feet.
Think anything bad about her rather than that, I prefer to die.
I care about her more than anyone else.
I love her more than I love myself.
She changed me.
And that's
The biggest tragedy.
She doesn't know any of it.
She is my favourite person.
The sound of her voice is my favourite music.
And God knows how much I love music.
She brings me up from the dark to the glory.
She is the favourite part of my story.
She has my favorite mole on her face.
She has my favourite goals and aim.
She has my favorite attitude.
She has my favourite gratitude.
She has my favorite insecurities.
She has my favourite qualities.
She has my favorite confidence.
She has my favorite innocence.
She has my favorite pride.
She has my favorite side profile.
She has my favorite fragrance.
She has my favorite arrogance.
She has my favourite eyebrows.
She has my favourite glow on her face.
She has my favourite hairs.
She has my favourite ears.
She has my favorite teeth, my favorite feet.
She has my favorite flaws, my favorite dreams.
I love the way she celebrates.
Everything about her is my favorite.
But above all—
Those eyes.
I can look into them forever.
Doors to heaven.
Beyond every good and bad,
Every wrong and right.
Where I see myself fulfilled.
And fine
All the time.
I love her in such a way
That I want her to come and stay
With me.
But more than that,
I want her to be happy and free.
Finally, I understand:
Words aren't enough
To explain,
To express
Why I did those things.
What's the story behind it.
Why I couldn't tell her I'm not what she thought I am.
Why I couldn't tell her
I'm not the words she heard
Or the things she saw.
The truth lived—
Still lives—
In my eyes.
Whenever I write about her,
I find myself unsatisfied.
And that's the biggest tragedy of my life.
I couldn't tell her what she meant to me.
So,
The fact remains the same.
She doesn't know any of it.