Fireflies


Everytime I see lights like that of night’s cities bright, I would always like to put some in a jar, and cover it, like fireflies. And when I hear a stramp of a guitar like that of a somber tone,
I would like to collect the hue – I only knew; of my childhood days,
of your bashful smiles in the pouring rain,
swirling eddies,
one afternoon.

I like to think of those innocent eyes after we both went home from school.
Those giggles I wish I have forgotten, all a long.

There came your turn, I started scowling.

Yet you still managed to get my soul stooped down,
I was terrified.
I was tricked.
I couldn’t talk, as if my heart was strangled with every thrust only you can invent.

This was a quarter of hell,
and my nights were bones of forgotten being, like that of a museum I don’t want to get into. And my days were a mixture of regrets and honey,
somber dews and caffeine, I got hooked.

And of this music when you open your mouth,
like that of every steady tick of your watch: I remember you.
I let the fireflies fly.

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This Poems Story

Childhood