writing of you now feels like travelling
to a foreign land i once knew like the back of my hand
the pen doesn't sit on the pad of my thumb like i remember it
i blow the dust off my old notebook
and flip through the pages
traces of you come off the surface
and reside on the tip of my fingers.
i swear, i could feel those traces seep into my blood
like the dark blue ink that lives permanently
on my skin
my paper cuts burn
with your residue
on the scab.
except, i hadn't quite expected it to still hurt.
i thought it was merely an old childhood disease,
something to tell my friends about if topic came up.
i thought of that night i hid in the balcony
and you told me about the story behind that song
about being numb, some singer or the other,
i don't remember,
had another bust of an old childhood disease
he once used to have.
and i thought, this was exactly like that,
and i thought,
god how i wish i still had you to tell,
it was exactly like that.
