If it was infatuation,
I would have forgotten you long ago,
but sometimes I muse about you.
You come to me in moments
of great happiness or in miseries and blues.
You are that nostalgic feeling of home.
I don't call you, don't send you texts, still,
I chat with you over imaginary
scenarios that we could have lived or avoided.
No, I don't love you anymore neither I care about you,
but I don't know,
I really don't,
What is this, this nameless despicable thing,
Bright as well as grey,
It makes me random,
Neither with you nor without you.