It's always about Things, Things that we want, Things that they want.
They Change, Change hearts, when levels Change.
Us is what we want to think of, even though Us doesn't exist, perhaps there was once a possibility of Us.
It hasn't been Long, not as Long as we are led by our memories, but Long enough to call it an attempt made in vain.
Twas a Magical mistake, Magical to the extent of waiving off of guilt and regret, much missed is that Magical spark cause it is not had again yet.
Shrill voices of Reason keep pulleying us out of the mess, unaware that they built a back door which keeps blowing away the flames of Reason, twas this, all this time which towed us apart, it was this damn Reason!
It lasted way too long, this Tryst of ours. It felt exquisite, almost an anomaly, that Tryst.
Trysts have happened, and they always will.
But they weren't and wouldn't ever be,
What was built by us, be it an accident, was everything that is expected out of an intimate company.
YOU ARE READING
This Obsession Of Mine
PoetryDedicated to the various things that keep me occupied while I have free time.
