Penning down poetry with you,
That’s something I really miss.
The way we just jotted down,
The many things we talked about.
Writing anything for each other,
From love to poverty to politics;
Then, back again, to love.
The spontaneity and harmony,
With which we created write-ups.
Painting pictures with words–
Be it flowery, simple, fancy, or dark.
The fact that I knew you’d get it,
Anything I chose to use or say.
I loved that we had
The same train of thought–
I could use figures of speech,
And I knew, you’d see through it.
Most times, you did.
Sometimes, you didn’t get my meaning,
And I loved those moments, too.
Those were the times, you’d ask–
Ask away, you did, and I’d laugh.
I used to goad you into discovering,
What I meant–what I wanted to mean–
A word, a line, a stanza.
Sometimes, I had to explain
The whole thing.
But then, you’d make poetry, too.
Each day was full of poems for me.
Why did that even stop, anyway?
Why did we allow it to end?
What I really want, to say, is this:
I miss you and yes, I remember you.
I recall the endless discussions–
The steady flow of input-output
Between you and me.
Although, words are superfluous.
Nothing can, ever, fully enunciate
What was really lost,
The day I lost your love.
Because, I lost more than love.
I also lost my friend–
The dear friend I had, in you.