Like a faded wound, that doesn’t bother you anymore,
I think about them no more.
Except when I stumble upon old letters,
I read them anyway, even though I know better.
Declarations of love, poetry for my beloved and sweet nothings
As my fingers trace the faded words, I have trouble breathing.
I move on to further musings, tear soaked papers, stories of pain
Promises to self to never love again, all in vain.
I find a box of heartache in every corner of my life,
Stories of people whose words hurt more than a knife.
Again and again, the same old misfortune and pain,
Just by people with different names.
Every time I look the dusty volume of my past,
I wonder what curse has been cast?
For even I though lock them away, memories of heartache still cling,
Every time I think of the past, it still stings.
© Sneha P [rights reserved 2017]