it is but bittersweet
that all we get now
are moments stringed
together like garlands
of unscented flowers,
petals slowly dropping
one by one,
i try to catch
and hold them in the
palm of my bruised hand
hoping the soft,
innocent blades will
somehow soothe me
hoping that i could
keep each one firmly
tucked and planted
on my consciousness
wishing that i could,
if not stop,
atleast, slow down
their wilting

i am trying,
but everyday they
keep on falling
i count what's left
and i don't see much

soon there'll be nothing left
of the perfect little
blooms that have marked
your coming and eventually leaving
soon i'll lose
everything that i have ever had
of you. . .

if i could stop time,
from carefully erasing your memory
i would. . .
but i don't think i should