I can't write poems anymore because the presence of you appears like a heavy cloud, blanketing all means to think clearly. Because of you, my emotions are quote-zoned.

I went to sleep with resolutions of leaving you, but woke up tainted by impulses of wanting you.

Waiting for you to tear me up and feed me to the mad dogs of conscience.

My mind is a time-travelling rocket: it flies everywhere, past and future, but never lands in the presence.

I'm starting to think that all of my fictional love poems were about you.

Don't sweeten your words in my presence - I am allergic to romance.

I don't want you to be another tourniquet.

We engage in laughter till our sadness becomes voiceless, but it's still there, banging at the walls of our hearts, tearing at that fabric called love.