Again why again

I want to write about the muse or
Or how Enid Blyton was
not just a story but a
revolution in itself.
I want to write about
music and art and poetry,
how they have been saving so many lost souls of this world and how they will continue to do so.

But when I write
it’s about you,
my words like a helpless baby
going to her mother
crawl back to your lap.
Your existence,
just the existence in this world is a comfort; the kind of comfort you find in pumpkin soups on winter nights.
So I write about you
how you are a painting so beautiful
that I find Da Vinci an amateur,
how you started a revolution in me
the moment you laid those eyes on me
and how you found my soul wandering in a dead field but brought it home, nurtured it, nourished it and sculpted an angel out of it.

I wanted to break the clichés,
laugh at the truisms and
mock the poets who found their words
in coffee shops and heart breaks.
But when I write
I write about
how I sit here in an empty cafe sipping that black tea and I am not even a tea person,
how I will buy a jar of honey mustard sauce just for the sake of it,
and how easily I will let you walk all over my heart, shattering it to pieces,
pointing you to the softest spots,
telling you where to stamp hard
just so it will hurt a little bit more.

And I write about how you saved my soul but not my heart.

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