Poetry

Those Mad Souls

A much crowded street
colored with shouts and whispers, noises and honks
was abruptly vacant that evening.
the silence whispered, a drapery of calmness it was.
awe-fully familiar streets, devoid of traffic lights and the smell of books,
it was sad maybe.
but it weaved a magic of it’s own
with the onset of spring winds, bright stars and two mad souls walking shamelessly, over and over again.
mediocre stained white cups of blacks and dream catchers on their eyes,
they looked deep, but it was all dark in there.
it was a blessing maybe, they knew how to suck in each other’s darkness.
they celebrated comradeship and halo of smoke all above their head,
they celebrated the lonely streets, the warm feeling of just walking together,
in short,
they celebrated each other.
‘what are your plans for the Valentines’ day?’, a cynical smirk winked in the corner of the newly smeared lipstick.
‘tra-la-la-la’, sang the long dark fingers with a cigarette bud.
she knew, he was mocking her.
she knew, it was a used book that she gave him for the month of love.
he was her revolution. she wanted his fumes and sparks all over her soul.
she knew, they didn’t believe in ‘days’ and months.
she knew, they just believed in each other’s revolution,
they just believed in the long walks, the spring breeze, the deserted streets
and the recurrent friction among their fingers and their souls.
yes, they were highly imperfect. they shouted, sass mouthed at each other.
but they were hapless romantics.
they knew,
their bite of romanticism is unknown to others, that this wave of tumultuous emotions among themselves won’t be understood by others, but them.
they knew, they had found their home, in each other.
an abode of absurdity and grapfiti on walls,
an abode of poetry and music,
an abode that they won’t leave ever,
those mad souls.

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