11:11 P.M. You are that 11:11 wish that I never wish upon. Every time I visit this thread and not write, a part of our story dies and they fill the cleft with your silence. Because we live in a conundrum where biases matter and the thing that matters, doesn't really matter. Some days I flee changing trains, buses, pulses and muses, one-two-three; other days I sit on the empty shelf in your cupboard where you segregate your clothes. Some days I'm that sleeping tee you never choose, other days I'm that smirk you never lose. Some days I crave for poetry, other days I make a living out of prose. But most days I'm a homesick and we're drunk, where nothing is whiskey or rum, it's just gray. Gray.
