Are Loving: Present Progressive

Are Loving: Present Progressive

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With her fingertips, she traced the smooth, darkened skin under his eyes. "Eyebags," she noted. "I've been thinking," he murmured, "of you. The shadow of my thoughts is the ink which stains them." She paused and gazed right into those distant pupils, "maybe it's best for me to leave. For us to be apart. Our broken love etches too deep a scar to heal." His eyes fluttered shut, like the faint sparks of ignited newspaper clippings gradually dying out. "Nothing can remove the shadow of us," he breathed, "it's stencilled onto my heart." She let her hand fall until it hanged limp by her sides. His lips quivered for a fraction of a second and his eyelids opened again, "I'll never let go. It will always be a silhouette of us against the crumbling world." "Maybe we are the crumbled world," she whispered. One person: IS Loving. Throw in another and you'll get ARE Loving. Present Progressive. Some poems are from my other anthology, but I just categorised it here since it is part of the "same event."
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#364
longing
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Dear You, This story is about longing. This story is about two people who weren't supposed to collide came together. This story is about the tryst with destiny. What happens when despite all the words that are bestowed, everything was left unsaid. What happens when despite all the trust bestowed, hope was gone? This story is the shortest ballad written down in the longest time. Trying to delay as much as one could bottle up just to avoid the pages turning. It's about the relationship that faded away but just when the memories began to fade someone found the oldest trick in the book, to write. This story is about all the letters that were returned unread, sent to an address which no longer could be found. It's about how two people who meet on a staircase try to embrace each other's true self behind the veil. Relations are always imbalanced and that's the truth that no one talks about, at least on paper. You are told that in relation two must be equal for it to suffice but the truth is that in those relations that suffice there is always one who does more. Then the other person tries to make effort but fails. And when they both stop they become who they were all along; strangers. This wouldn't be like a story that will catch you off guard or knock you off your feet. But by the time you are done, you will be left with compassion and feeling what was felt by him and her, in all the real sense. With the words which are to be savored, and with the gaps to be swallowed too as raw as they are meant to be. She had flowers in her hair and demons in her head. He had cigarettes in his hand, yeah that's all he really had. Sometimes things happen slowly, eventually, gradually yet suddenly for you to realize that it's all over before it ever had a chance to begin and like the time all those moments that pass, the stories usually go and come around where it all started. Sincerely, The guy who wrote what was unsaid.

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