Sometimes, hurricanes and poems
are named after people.
Humans are made of poetry and life.
Eyes are the best story-tellers.
I saw her.
I don’t remember where
Maybe across the street
or in Rumi’s great grass field
We gazed at each other for some time
Our eyes met for just five seconds.
i. She liked butterscotch
and loved watching Games of Thrones.
She feared overpriced dresses
and staying in closed spaces.
ii. She had her heart broken
and her trust shattered into human pieces.
Naturally, she built a wall around herself
To not let people in.
Did I say she was claustrophobic?
iii. She was the one I was looking for
the ‘How I met your mother’
and the endless stories we would share.
She was my ‘this is it’.
iv. She was twelve when she cut her wrist
for the very first time.
Fourteen, she stopped etching stories on it.
Now, she calls them memories.
v. She was wild
and loved watching the sky
cut into a hundred stories
through the branches.
I told you eyes are the best story-tellers.
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