For Whenever AD Couldn't Pull The Trigger.

“This city knows the people are dead.”

I cannot recall for how much time I have been this way, yet, somehow I remember his embrace, something I experienced exactly three hundred and seventy-seven days ago- that’s beyond dead.

This city is dead indeed, no amount of songs or poetry can attempt to seek salvation through it. On such one moonlit evening, looking for a drag (as I quite light myself one beside the cheap liquor) without any bother expecting to stir my fervour, offering me more than a drag to crash over at. The very vivid response led me to that alluring terrace with that one damned orange fused vodka- heck, did even the hell know I am aware of nothing about stars, let alone the ‘Cassiopeia’; was it just your idea, stranger?

He was a quite entity, minding his own sphere, little do I always revere to never rustle his path and crash- an act so ethical yet unfeasible. I read your note, exactly after three hundred and seventy-seven days, do not behold myself guilty of coming across your whereabouts, let us both pretend this is the very first time I am proceeding to encounter you, like that very night.

Do you think I have forgotten? Forgotten the way you embosomed me like there were no sight of sunrise the next time, pulling me towards you for a forehead kiss? I might deprive skills of expressing that very night even after occupying the position of a literature student, my catalyst friend. We indeed were two souls merged into one, if anything less.

My poetry is always a mess, my friends abandoned, liquor mixed with red.

Would you still find me equal to Plath if you knew my antiquity?

Forgive me father for I have sinned, yet I keep reminiscing him, digging the same dust with a dagger, knowing very well I would wound him at the very end. I dream of us arching our paths again- only to me leave him crucified.

I still think of you, stranger, it’s been three hundred and seventy-seven days, you must have met someone who has already broken your heart, leaving you thinking they are your ‘last love’.

Here I lay on this computer screen rapidly typing this on an expired deadline, anticipating it reaches you, somehow, someday.

This. Is. A. Suicide. Note.