masterpiece

love could be a masterpiece

but there was no harmony, 

so i became his

precious problem too later 

when i began to realize

how i should be loved ;

loudly or silently, 

daily or rarely,

truly or mistakenly, 

swiftly or suddenly;

loving me is an art,

but i hurt the artist 

everytime he fills the colour. 

love is such a masterpiece 

where you never realize

which corner of your heart 

became the darkest and 

you begged in the 

deadliest way possible

while shattering

on the ground, 

crying every night 

bawling my eyes out, 

just to settle down

one last time, 

not in the fluffiest lap,

not under the shiniest stars, 

not on the smoothest bedsheet

but only in his solace. 

love starts to become 

that masterpiece when

i never needed to imprint

imagination of him 

fading to the fog 

in my brains for 

drawing dark lines 

around my heart, 

but when he actually

does a poetic take off from

the life i always

imagined with him, 

the life full of light,

the life full of forgiveness,

the life full of survivals. 

this love turned into

a masterpiece

when i used to wake up

with swollen eyelids 

every morning but

everybody could see 

those pigmented

white stains of dried tears

all over my face 

which tried to hide the time

which i never desired 

bringing out in front of him. 

- chetna 🌻