This little place they call a writer’s block.
Would you care to pay me a visit?
I surround myself with it. I stay in it, and I sleep over it.
I have made it my home now.
Would you push open the old creaking gate,
And tiptoe down the spiral staircase to the basement?
The house welcomes you with an archaic clock.
It is stuck at the hour you said goodbye.
Don’t be fooled; they’re my eyes.
Stare at them long enough & your reflection will wink back.
The guestroom is adorned with a flame.
My lungs blow oxygen once in a while to rekindle its dying spark.
Hear that fluttering sound right across the hall?
A foolish child tied my heart to the ribcage,
said it was his paper kite that someone tried to snatch away.
I keep thinking that you’d come around.
I hear you re-read the drafts I scribbled long back,
Ask me who did I write them for?
But I just lie here in an empty bed,
And watch the wind play its dirty tricks.
Our memories ride on the paper planes,
And fly across the room in a frenzy.
Till they become the wandering clouds,
that disappear into the sunbeam.
The memories that you’ll become in years to come,
The memories that you already are.