Halcyon

at 12.a.m.

The digital clock struck twelve,
and I lingered with bated breath.
I stared at the bright glare of my phone,
my heart thudding in a dimming room.
I waited. And waited.
But there were no calls,
no messages either,
from people I thought were mine.

I looked at the pictures,
all of them:
perfect, dazzling, flamboyant stills,
abruptly planned road trips,
vivid getaways from the city,
aesthetic-filled cafe visits.
they seem to have done it all —
laughing, beaming at the camera,
like the universe had never broken them.

Reality didn't even bother to pretend,
or hide its hideous truth.
It rubbed the irony in my charred face
with acrid brine.
I wasn't excluded,
I was just ignored.
and God, did that hurt more
than simple, plain, outright rejection.

I closed the 'gram,
and reopened it again,
desperately wishing, begging, hoping
that something had changed.
A delinquent message,
or a just-one-ring missed call —
I'd take anything.
Let it please be there.

But let's be unpretentious here:
Some people don't forget —
They just don't care.
Simply. Entirely.
Like bunking a class.
And suddenly, just like that,
They become the reason
You don't want to leave the bed
the next day.

In the era where connection is constant,
Silence always roars the loudest.
And when the heart finally admits
what the mind begs to forget,
it shatters —
like irreparable chinaware,
scattered on the floor,
glass-sharpened pain
seeping through the veins
with a mighty vehemence.

Happy Birthday to me.

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