Ocean of words

Empty page

None knows how hard it is to
write the first line
And how we disappear into another world in the middle
And how easy it is to end the poem:
Except for a poet!

Unlike the relationships,
Easy to start
But incinerating to end;
Beautiful in the start
But messed up in the end.

But if there was a book
about our story,
The first page would be empty
And the last page would be
written with an undiscovered language,
written with tears and the pieces of me which have been shattering everyday.
Exactly, the same pieces which you stuck together in the flow before.

Now how am I supposed to hold your hands
after knowing that we can never be more than just friends?...

It's so confusing...
Am I just acting depressed?
Or am I really depressed?
Should I distance myself from you?
Or should I let you do it anyways?
Is this pain?
Or is this just an aching vein?

Funny how I keep going on:
From one topic to another;
Wanted to write about poetry,
But kept on writing about you...