On one of these restless evenings,
as the delicacies of the dark begin to carve out,
The lingering senses of your touch
Still sweep me by the fingers,
To the graveyard of moments erected by time.
My ear drums still vibrate to the echo of your voice;
A music I still dance to,
Even as the floor is covered with the shattered glasses from our fight.
No, it wasn’t your fault.
Those smiles you shot me with, maybe were never aimed at me. Just crossed-paths.
Maybe I was always a game you played,
I know, as the most enjoyable one.