• zohiii 10w

    Last summer, I was diagnosed,
    with a rare disease;
    the doctor in an altercation with
    his team, concluded that
    it was a side-effect of persistent
    shortness of breath:

    "It's not in my hands anymore;
    A mere ten-thousand and four,
    This will be your life now;
    Thrice to ponder, and to trow."

    It was stated on paper,
    that my inhaling and exhaling
    quota per day,
    was fixed to that number and
    who would have thought,
    there would come a time when
    my breaths would be chained.

    I started noting down,
    every gasp, every pant,
    every extra word, every extra step;
    ten-thousand and four seems
    excessive, but when have you
    counted your pleasures,
    it's always the miseries
    etched in hearts.

    It was less, undeniably,
    because of that I had to suppress
    emotions that were dreary;
    crying, laughing, rage, love,
    every single one of them;
    I was of flesh and blood
    and no life, bitter and alone.

    As soon as the day would end,
    the number would be refreshed;
    it was as if a conjurer casted
    a spell on me, and there was no
    falling out of it,
    until I met her, in wicked winter:

    "Heya, I've seen you for a while,
    I'm somewhat of a secret lover,
    And I'll walk with you all aisles,
    Love you, with undying fervour."

    Do you trust winter vows?
    It was surreal when she told me
    that she loved me, a person
    who contemplated twice
    to tell her he loved her back;
    she was heaven, the way her
    locks hung on my face,
    scenting my literally cursed
    breaths was a fortune,
    too precious, too dangerous.

    She made my heart throb wildly,
    and did everything that
    I wasn't supposed to;
    for her sake, in a long time,
    I felt like living,
    and stayed away from her;
    until the end,
    there has to be an end,
    the one certainty you can't
    run away from.

    It was a cold night, a blizzard
    was sweeping across the city,
    the phone rang,
    so did the knell:

    "There's something to tell you,
    I am sad I haven't been true,
    But your visage, my gaze seeks,
    To live now, I only have weeks."

    I slammed the door open,
    ran amok the snow-covered
    avenue, and I lost the count
    of breaths, felt it was a waste;
    as I reached her place and saw
    her lying helpless on a white
    bed, whiter than the snow
    outside, she was snow-white;
    I was panting, gasping,
    and doing all the things one
    does for a loved one,
    I was crying; I trod with heavy
    footsteps towards her:


    I had ran out of time.


    I bent down a bit, saw the red
    stain on her lips, with a pumping
    heart, I couldn't resist:


    I kissed her,
    the fairy tale ended,
    the spell broke.

    A hurricane robbed me of air
    in summer,
    and I have no regrets,
    because my last one was
    fragranced with hers.


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