Cyan is my name when I talk about you

I bet you've forgotten the subtle shift of my laughter turning into a meek state of despair. 
I exhale a sigh and choke on my breath as i convince myself to pen down that acceptance is a process 
and forgetting only means that you were once remembered. 

I'm at a stalemate. I'm a slope. 
Live in me. Breathe through me. Die with me. 
These are the words from my previous letters, 
words that were too heavy for you to take in 

I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, 
You and I 
Again.
What i don't know is whom I'll be flinching at then–You, or life? 

Whatever i've written up until now,
I couldn't write you a fairytale with the most enchanting forest nymph in it.
I wrote you sad skies and mundane rainfalls instead. 

Allow me to write you again
About dawdling clouds, warm hoodie, the last bite of my brownie, spicy phuchkas, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee 
All of it. 

I know you won't call me anymore and i know that i can't 
anymore either. 
For why there be any yearning if not a bit of anything is left to offer anymore anywhere 

Forgetfulness is the last thing I'd be able to write you about and forgiveness should be the last thing for you to linger your hopes on 

I often wish to live beyond the words that i read and the words that you read that i write 

Neither this poem nor the universe is enough to swallow the love i've sowed
for you. 

Rufaida Huq occasionally contributes to Star Literature.