CRUSH

I would paint us a forever, for you know, it’s all plausible on a piece of canvas, I have known you for ages it feels, may be you were the petal of a rose reposefully resting on the torn pages of my favorite book.
I am sure you were the last newspaper, singing the anecdotes of war that I bought, betraying my last penny. Some afternoons I think of you as an adamant river and myself as an esplanade of agony, which is walked upon by your desperate beholders.
I wonder if we both were on the quixotic titanic and I drowned in your hoodwinking smile before the infamous iceberg could do me any harm. Were you the one who kissed me back to life amid the 60’s plague? I guess you were the last drop of the monsoon that oozed down my parched skin, before I died a hundred years ago.
Or maybe I was the one to write a hundred poems anonymously just for you to read? I foolishly ponder, how it would feel to be able to touch you; will I dwindle into ashes of my uncontained emotions or rather turn into a stone and feel no more?
I can’t bring myself to picture our trembling sanity together. Will it be the fusion of all evil, or turn out to be the mountain of nebulous explosion? I would repay any debt to know the smell of your cologne; will it save me from my vivid incubus, or gladly become one?
There are days when I feel my existence is merely an excruciating monologue about the beauty of failure and my soul feels like a rotting catacomb. But you remind me, there will be days I’ll find myself swimming across the horizon of euphoria.
You have been the savior of my fallen dominion and the destroyer of my sufferings. But you are also the funeral of my fantasies and the slayer of my sagacity. ‘It’s just a crush,’ they say, yet I keep scribbling this felicitously doomed saga because it’s all plausible on a piece of canvas.

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