Bisma Naveed/A Thought Process
Night fall after night fall,
I call out your name,
It echoes against my lips,
Reverberating in my every breath.
But then it ruptures into this cloak of shivering white that I wear,
Depleting into this film of delicate nothingness,
Only to be held permanently in these crevices of my pale skin.
I stand, bruised under the piercing gaze of this moonlit sky,
Draping myself in the lingering scent of your soothing words,
Your mellow touch forming strokes of pure mirth
Against this filthy misery coiling into my aching wounds,
Scratching at all that is lifeless, dead.
I break even more,
Shifting against this gnawing restlessness,
In my desperate pursuit for tranquility,
Crafting a plastic hope out of these shapeless shadows.
I fade away,
Only to awaken again in this house of glass,
In the fragile existence of the memories that we built.