On Thursday nights, the only sound I can hear is of my lone footsteps.
The joyful laughter of kids and alike is merely background noise to me – almost nonexistent.
It is a grey-blue spiral spinning around me
Whose lines are fading within each other.
The noise of clashing swords in and around the world that I have learnt to turn deaf ears to,
Because all it does to me is ignite a sense of envy for all the merriment around.
The sound of the open road running miles away from this world to yours,
Or the voice coming out from an empty house that once had its voids filled with laughter,
Or the whistle of a train that marks the departure of someone you loved.
Loneliness is whitewashed and lustreless, hollow and eerie,
Reverberating doom and rue through these vessels that run dry.
Do you quiver when the cold winds blow, plunging your hands right inside those pockets?
The sound of a clock that’s ticking as each moment surpasses,
The alert tone of a message that my mother dropped,
My cold hands without the moisture and suppleness,
Or this broken window that I am looking out of.
The wine that sticks to my glass like glue on a paper,
These old pair of socks that have abstract patterns made on it-
I still find warmth in them.
Loneliness is concoid of fragile threads,
A nightmare of an unreal dream,
The pitter patter of tears on the ground,
And my quiet sobs against satin pillows.
I am riding a carousel of desolation and sorrow,
That I no longer wish to fathom.
This grey keeps getting darker under the sun,
While the threads entangle in unison.
Infinite boulevard 