You probably don't know me, but I know you, a little.
Because he talks about you, more often than not.
Whenever he talks about the time spent with you, he doesn't look me in the eyes, and I understand why.
I don't have the ears he wants to reach.
It feels like his mouth is a basket of unwashed clothes, reeking of the days spent in your embrace.
The garments filled with stains of all the times he lost his grip and fell for you.
I wonder if full stops is all he has to offer to someone who wishes to put a comma after every word, every hug, every kiss, wishing for the sentence to never end, wishing for the love to never end.
Seeing love lose against destiny is something that torments him, and I think we both know why.
But I don't know if he'll ever talk about me to someone else.
I don't know if he'll hold my hand in his and waltz across the room
I don't know if he'll crave the love that I have to offer
and I don't know I am writing this to you.
I don't know if this will reach you.
But all I know is that he ends his piece with tears in his eyes and says "I need you"
and I know he's not saying that to me.
©sakshi1099
S