Through these pit-pats of rain,

You thought about some unsung songs

You thought about unwritten lines

You thought about unspoken words.

The plain taste of your coffee left you bitter on the tongue.

As you see the unorganized book on the shelves,

You think about scattered papers, unfinished works of poems

All the regrets, the forgotten wills, aims and the high bars you’ve set yourself

Some queues went in wrong order,

Some trains passed in the wrong railway, but it went to a certain direction so you cant stop its movements,

It felt so lost, like searching a significant Rembrandt through a blur of Monet’s paintings.

Like a millions of dots on your paper,

You started the point, but doesn’t really know how to carry on the line.

In the end, you let the dotes led you to another blank papers.

Sometimes you stopped, all of us stopped, hyperventilating and breathing too much intakes of air through these too little nostrils, but we’re still breathing eventually.

This feeling is when you walked outside in the middle of the rain with the wrong umbrella, the water kept falling, seeping into your unseen hole of heart, puddling and flooding your space.

Then you talked because you think it’s lonely, so you said some things and the wall reflected them back.

You talked to some broken radios.

But the TV answers you in black and white.

-June 11th, 2013