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.

I don't want you to be another tourniquet.

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

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

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

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

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

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.