Mirage.

uprooted.

How am I suppose to let you go now?

The lights on your bridge,

The open air book market.

The humid wind and the labyrinth of our hamlet.

The memories, at every twist and turn,

Of our labyrinth.

My many labyrinths.

You appear like the sky,

The only thing I see now.

Glittering.

Precious, and perhaps treasured.

I do not see my house from the clouds.

But, I see my home.

I relapse into the smell, the sweat, the cacophony and the old red bricks.

Home?

A person, their memory, or their arms?

Their laughter?

Home.

Their eyes.

Home.

Their mischiefs.

Home.

My fairy-lights.

Home.

My terrace.

Home.

My symphonies.

Home.

My favorite American sitcom.

Home.

My city, my history.

The montage of my past.

The lessons, heartbreaks, and friendships that you gave me.

And, I sat in the dark of my room.

Cursing.

Why me?

Why not me?

The blood and the blues.

The guitar riffs, your incessant reminder of the unrequited.

The Utopia I painted, I played and I wasted my tears on.

The reality, our reality.

So many broken knuckles, promises and ribcages.