A Poem Rumi Forgot to Complete

"Was I just dreaming?"  Was he? His mother was repeatedly screaming over him– screaming and screaming, in that voice of hers. God, he wanted to shut her down but he was not his usual self in this dream– or maybe his usual self wasn’t him here. Who was he? He could barely pin anything down. She screamed and screamed at him to get out of bed, so he did. He got up and out of bed, and he stared at her. His mother went silent.  He went downstairs and ate breakfast, but as he sat eating, he realized that he had no idea who he was. He had no idea about his profession, age or anything. He didn’t even know his name.  It occurred to him that he might ask his mother who he was– but no. Somehow, he was sure that it would be no use, asking her. Then, a strange thought wriggled into his head.  He wanted to see her dead body.  The body he loved the most, but never touched. He knew he was in a dream but he also knew something else, in that strange dream-way– something more magi...

Whispers of the Wicked He looked at his shaking hands. A few weeks ago, he was just fine. He had no trembling hands. He did not sneeze and cough most of the time. He was full of energy. He was never grateful for that.  "Did I take my health for granted? Isn't this the same for everyone?"  This was his first time experiencing this kind of thing, the illness. Definitely, health was a top priority but he had taken many things for granted, his career, his partner, his life, his happiness, God, everything he could think of. He had taken almost everything for granted. He was so sure that he would never lose any of them. So, he took everything causally. Nothing was important for him anymore. Not his name nor his fame. He preferred to keep it simple, but was his life really simple?  He thought in the middle of the night. He looked back at his past, full of regrets but he wasn't ashamed, he never would be. Because that's what he was - a shameless person with no regard for ...

How do you want to be captured?" you ask.  Don't you know how to capture me? Don't you know the art of being immortalized in words? Haven't you made me a prisoner of your love?  I want to lie on the pages of your diary where you'd put dry flowers. I want to bleed into your ink. I want to be a permanent part of your daily blogs. I want to smell like your hands that leave their scent when you touch my soul.  Baby, imprison me in your thoughts. Cage my whole life in your eyes. Bury me in your heart. Wear me in your skin.  Don't you know I want to be captured by you? And only you.

There is so much to say that my words have gone silent. I cannot express it. I cannot feel it. I cannot make you understand. I cannot. I just can't.  But, my love!  You can hear my silence, can't you? You say you know me. You say you are aware of all the things I have been through. You say it. You say all those sweet words. But my dear, when I dive deep into the darkness, I don't find you there. When I am at my lowest, why I don't find you there?  Why there are only words and no actions? Why do I have to shed my tears alone? Why I don't find you beside me? Why your love is void of emotions? Why can't you feel me?  This contrast in your words and actions makes me realize that I'm hard to love. Hard to assemble. Hard to teach. Hard to comfort. Light can't love darkness. Sadness can't be a friend of happiness. Like that, you can't be me.   My love, I can't make you understand why I love Kafka. Why do I listen to music that rips my heart? Why did...

We both knew this poem would not be finished. It would always remain a piece of incomplete work. But, still we chose to write the first word - love - for the poem of our lives. The first word that would change our lives forever. The first word that would mean more than the last. The first word that we wrote with our souls. The first word that we would always remember. But we never thought about finishing that poem because the endings were not always beautiful. We were afraid that completing this poem would ruin its beauty, weren't we? It was never meant to be a complete piece of art. It was broken, incomprehensible, unfinished, and a little ruthless like our love. It was like a wanderer in the forest. It resembled the journey of gipsies. It was a pearl, lost in the mighty ocean, waiting for its turn to be found. But that unfinished poem carried our memories. The moments that we shared, the days that were spent in search of a perfect ending, the nights that we almost found a finishi...