I long for the days when heartbreaks used to entice me.
When regrets kept me company on lonely nights.
When stars and the Moon and the Sun
told their unfinished love stories.
When my pen bled ink, and scars glowed in the dark.
Oh I miss those days of relentless writing.

And today, I hate my poetry, for the wound is healed.
It no longer bleeds ink. Scars are chapping away,
as if making love to Time. I am jealous.
For Time gets to keep everything.
My muse, my heartbreaks and regrets. Even my poems.
Pious and just, Time asks me with a vile smile,
"Do you want them back?"
I look at my pen. I look at my scars.
It was darker and ugly the last time I saw it.
It's a lighter shade now. Almost beautiful.
Is it worth having them back, I wonder.

- AbhiN