Become a PUBLISHED AUTHOR at just 1999/- INR!! Limited Period Offer
Become a PUBLISHED AUTHOR at just 1999/- INR!! Limited Period Offer

And Then She Was No More.

And Then She Was No More.

2 mins

Calling her name would give my mind a peace which is incomparable.

For hours, I would write her name and trace each and every letter, over and over again.

Her photo on the wall of my bedroom, I would caress her hair and cheeks in a hope to make it alive, just if I could.

She was wearing a saree, a blue coloured and beautiful saree, when I first saw her. She walked the earth like she owned it.

She carried the dress like no one could. Her smile was enough to make my day and her laugh was like a lightening.

If, only if I were a poet I would've written poetry about her, just so the world could know about her.

One day I walked towards her to ask her name, but I couldn't utter a word.

And then she walked past me and I was left there, alone, thinking why couldn't I say a single word.

After that day, I would stand in front of the lane which she used to walk, a single satisfying glance of hers was enough to make my day.

Her saree changed color each day, and I saw a rainbow in my life with every changing color.

I wanted to tell her what I felt like, I wanted her to know how beautiful she is in my eyes,

I wanted the world to know that she is and will be only mine.

She never once told me what she felt like when she saw me staring at her.

It was her charm, blinking continuously when she would feel conscious. I loved her even more then.

All was well. And I told everyone about her, but nobody really cared, they just heard and ignored.

But I never stopped telling about her. She was the most pretty girl I ever knew.

And then she was no more.

It was the day she read my diary, in the old library.

She issued it and read everything which I wrote about her, she traced the words and felt the emotions.

She read my suicide note on the last page. She tore the pages and wept like a kid.

She asked for the lost love and gave herself to someone else.

And then I loved her for the last time, I wrote about her for the last time, and then I touched her for the last time when I saw her blood oozing out of the cuts I made.

And then she was no more.

Rate this content
Log in

More english poem from Pragati Aharwar

Similar english poem from Crime