It has been a day. A day, since I've been struggling to get myself out of bed. To sluice my body clean of your smell. The smell, which has rubbed itself onto my skin, from the sheets we once laid in. A day. 24 hours. 1440 minutes.
It has been a week. A week, since I've been trying to get myself out of the house. To steer myself away from everything that reminds me of you. Like your copy of 'Ulysses' which still lies on the coffee table. A week. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes.
It has been a month. A month, since I've been trying to completely eradicate your presence out of my life. To get my feelings on paper. So, that I can finally make sense of everything that is happening around me. A month. 672 hours. 40,320 minutes.
It has been a year. A year, since I've been trying to get you out of my mind. To get the thoughts of you that invade me at unconventional hours, out of my system. But you don't move. You're still there, just like before. Your scent still feels fresh on my skin, your presence alive in my life, and the novel remains untouched on the coffee table.
— IT TOOK ME A YEAR, 8046 HOURS, AND 4,83,840 MINUTES TO REALISE THAT I STILL LOVE YOU.
YOU ARE READING
VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.
PoetryNeither salt nor sugar settles on your tongue. Only this blood of mine does. Neither I nor she fills up your heart. Only these tears of mine do. [POETRY/PROSE]
