A few easier said than done things,
He has come across or will,
In the next few months,
Maybe years or some time so soon.
Pulling her pictures out of the frames,
He carved himself in hours when hideous silence,
Took grasp of the careless nights,
And not a soul was seen in the streets,
Tonight he feels like smashing them,
Ripping the silence apart against the walls,
But even they had signs of her palms,
Dipped in colours she painted this room with.
He is helpless.
Burning his T-shirts which she would wear,
After the rains soaked hers wet.
She would playfully tease him to gain access,
To the keys of his closet and pick a random one,
Those fabrics have kept her warmth,
Safe in their voids and tiny spaces,
And even the matchboxes have these quotes,
She wrote to get cigarettes off his schedule.
At this stage too, he remains helpless.
Not just for these things,
There are a plenty he knows,
Has them learnt by all of his heart,
And has them carefully written in black ink,
In a leather covered diary she gifted,
Because black stands for darkness,
And that is all he has around him in her absence.
From the start of this poem to its end,
He has been and even now is helpless.