Brown eyes wide open

Lately, my poetry started to clamor with the whispers of past lovers.

I have written words that spoke about untold stories, broken promises, my hopes. 

And you.

I've never stopped writing about you. 

Or thinking about you.

Its not just you. 

Its what 'you' signified.

The boy who broke me. And my trust.

The boy who didnt love me. Or the truth.

The boy who knew me. And my heart.

And the boy who gave me faith.

Faith is a difficult romance. Atleast for me.

And i tried to not write about you.

But youre the one that lit the fire in me and stoked it. 

And it's got to a point where I'm not 'The One' in the stories.
In anyone's stories.
Present or the Future.
As if nothings ever about me.
As if I'm not even the afterthought.
As if I'm not worthy to be reminisced.
You make me feel this way.

So, what happens when you leave? 

I've asked myself this question, because the words were all i had.

Of the reality that now seems so fleeting

So, what happens now?

When it's a Friday night, and it's raining, I want you to think about that time I told you I live for thunder.
When it's a summer afternoon, I want you to remember the words I quoted of my favourite poet.
When it's a winter evening, I want you to remember the time I pulled you close and whispered that I love you.
When the sun is too bright in the day, I want you to remember that I thought all the light was in your eyes. Nevertheless they were black.
When you get your mail, I want you to remember that I liked being sent letters.
When you are walking alongside that path, I want you to remember the first time we came here for a walk.
When you sip your coffee, I want you to remember the burn I gave you when I tried to indulge you in coffee that morning.
When your finger hovers over  your empty screen, I want you to remember how I liked being quadruple texted.

I want you to remember me.
With brown eyes wide open.
Looking for my face in the crowd, now only but a memory.