Writing

A blank page listens in silence at this midnight hour,
To capture whatever is left behind from humdrum days;
A few words in black ink are scattered on these pages,
When I think of the fire in your brazen quick eyes.

The words that are scattered on scores of white paper,
Tell a tale of what would have if, had we given a try,
To the loads of fairytales that were possible in life-
Just a shot to what might have been probable earlier.

Yet you need no words from me; your life has closure,
While mine remains centred around the memory of a gaze,
One that unsettled some promises from another millenium,
Some unwritten ellipses of memory and my fond melodies.

Two spheres in their orbits, we are two true fools in life,
Too bad to be on a big colourshow in identical colours.