Let go

I have let you go 

I have forgiven you

I will not place burden on you ever again 

Because I realised that I'm delicate and precious 

My heart is soft and loving

But you don't see that

You see me as needy and cruel 

And I can't live with that 

So I will let you be

It can't break me

But I can't allow more pain

For you and me

Which is sad because I loved you with all that I had

But you weren't fair to me

Belonging

 It was him and just who he was and the fact that he could take me to a place that no-one else could. The peace I felt when around him, the way his words would make me laugh, made me believe that if I belonged anywhere, it was here with him. 

Letters

I didn't hear from you today so I'm writing this to you, with the hope that you'll open it and read it. 

The thing is, nowadays people will see and open a message but not read it. Deceptively, the sender thinks their words have been read. 

And that's not very nice when you think about it - words lost in transit, floating in space, that will never be read. 

When I see that you've not written, I think, well ok, I won't disturb you but then the emotional part of me thinks, my message to you will let you know that I'm thinking of you. It may be, that in your busy day, my words will give some reprieve. 

My words to you are saying: 'Hey, I just thought of you', 'I saw this post, and you came to mind', 'I'm missing you', 'I wish you were here'. 

So here's a letter that I'll hope you'll open and actually read. That you'll read the words and not leave out in the void. 

In another life

 I loved him so deeply. 

I wish he could have let me. 

Mainu paar laga de ve

I find the rivers mystical. They are vast, they have beautiful names and they tell love stories of doomed lovers.  

It's never goodbye

Funerals are odd. You are farewelling the deceased and you are meeting friends again that you haven't for the past 30 years. Funerals are reunions, under sombre circumstances. But I do love the feeling of love, warmth and connection after seeing and hugging old friends. Makes you wonder, if we do grow apart ever?

Who writes?

But who writes for the poet? 

Who writes to them when their words have finished and the ink has dried up? 

Who inspires them again when all words are dead and gone? 

Who shows them words that are just for them with each letter penned with adoration? 

Who writes to the poet?