We talk like strangers
Unwilling to laugh
Unable to cry
Like two shells remembering
The sound of a sea
Buried deep
Somewhere
In fissures of our bone…
Yours too my love?
Or of mine alone?
I was wrong to dream, wasn’t I?
Wrong to feel
Wrong to hope
A fool who thought her happiness starts
At the end of his joke
O Pagliacci, Pagliacci
Thou story of my life
Why didn’t you laugh and say:
It’s the heart which pierced the knife
Bye now, it’s late
And I have old wounds to tear
Like promises to make love
Or I wish you were here
The night is still young
Do not waste it on me
You had my life once
But you never stopped to see
Love how raw the writing is; that’s how must a heartbreak feel like. The readers can feel the poet’s torment. It’s pure, it’s universal yet written in a style that only belongs to you. (A departure from your stoic style of writing, I see.)
I am inspired.
Thank you very much for all the compliments 🙏🏻 Glad you understood and liked the poem. 😅 And yes, it is indeed written in a style a bit alien to my usual self but it was not a conscious choice.
Beautifully expressed…
Thank You, Piyush. Glad you appreciate it🙏🙏🙏