They tell me I write somewhat ok.
I smile and greet them
as the sun greets
the minarets in the desert,
without a purpose.
Why don’t you write something about love, they say?
something about a terrible broken past,
it sells you know; they will love it,
they always relate to it.
I tell him,
I don’t get the vibes out of it.
Love sometimes feels like
eating leftover chips at
a mediocre burger joint.
I prefer watching dogs
playing in the rain
sometimes.
at least they never pretend.
I met my friend almost everyday,
he loved jumping and wagging his tail,
he played in mud,
went after butterflies,
slept without a care
and sometimes was lazy as fuck
He was honest
one can just see that by a look in his eyes
But one day I could not find him
and the day after another,
After a troubled week
I came to know of his death
For the first time ever I lost a happy friend
who took all the happiness for a while.
I still remember his jumping.
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Writings to Heaven 