Dear ...,
I write about you when my heart aches and I feel like the weight of an entire city is pressing down on my back and the smoke from the pollution that city makes, fills up my lungs and travels through my veins like a car with a flat tire running on cheap diesel and I find it hard to breathe sometimes, not physically , I mean in terms of my soul. In an endless search for peace and tranquility, my soul, it remains confined in my body which I refuse to treat well , filling it with tears and agony and confliction which I consume from those around me and those who have left me, as if I am a magnet , attracted to their parallel force no matter how hard I try and refrain from it and I think about you when the night is turning to morning and at pointless times in the day like 11.08 am and 4.58 am and 11.27pm. I despise numbers and statistics and numbers in general yet I still count the day, minute and second that passes, I fear writing paradoxical poetry that reflects the state of my mind filled with pin points of names, faces and memories I try so hard to forget which is toxic for my heart but one name I try so hard to find, which is yours, doesn't exist in my mind yet. I have been in never-ending await for you, yet I can't find you.
I write to you, when I have nothing to write about you.
