Seasons in her eyes

All I wanted was for her to not be empty anymore,
So I fed her with an orange sunset of dying love.
But it was not enough.
Helplessly, I watched as the seasons changed in her eyes and Monsoon burst in full swing.
I could do nothing but float tiny, blue paperboats of 'Maybes' doomed to drown in her black rain.

Wasted Moments like Spilt Honey

Days like these remind me that my tiny room is an eye of the storm. I lie down on my red and blue chequered mattress and bide my time.
The moments drop down slowly like spilt honey, their sweetness intensified by an acute sense of loss and waste.
Never again will I have this moment.
 Never again will I be this young.
 Never again will my heart be as strong and my mind me as bright.
 But what does it matter?
My toe crosses the imaginary line of my sheltered nook and lo and behold! There is restlessness and mistrust and delusion that this is important.
Anything matters.
I will make a difference.
I will succeed.
Success.
Such a pitiable word.
People keep trying to make it big in life. Have a successful job, marriage, social circle. I would like to think I am successful today. I have not a heart that belongs to me. Neither do I have an intense desire to belong to anyone.
I look out of the grimy glass vent at unassuming pigeons mating with abandon. This moment is forever.