Do the yellow pages at the back of your diary know me by now?

Do the ink stains right down your ripped pockets whisper my name mutely?
I unwind the string back and again to find myself drowning in the question of “Maybe”-s while getting soaked in the drops of “Almost”.
Might not be the fading glitter in the narrow alleys of your mind or the dying splinter at the end of your cigarette , but I am that last metaphor rising as a phoenix from the paradox of your Existence.
Might not be the receding shades of darkness around the contours of your eyes or the untamed strands of your hair, but in your those novice strokes on the canvas, I am the unfinished color on the palette.
And now when the typewriter stops, I look at the bleeding lines above . The writer inside me sighs placidly.’ It is not the far cry of Literature within me but the breathes of a dying character that makes me write.’
The character that I am going to meet in another story.
Where the Ignorance between us today will turn to Love again.

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