3 A.M.
His gaze tracing the edges of fans and plaster of Paris on the ceiling. 3 A.M. and the tears flowing drop by drop into his own arms. His body’s numb to any real feeling, As he hears his mind’s worries revealing; his heart wants to wail, and he wants to beat his chest or bang his head or pluck that aching organ out or puke the vermilion out. He sees himself fallen from the glory. Like the Medieval monuments he is deteriorating… His beloved abandoning him like the Mughals abandoned their beloved Sikri. He is as lonely as he has ever been. Words drying up and the mouth turning into prison bars.. Lips sealing into a suckling reminder of being a man who loves. He hate lying here and crying silently when all he want is to howl and wail into the darkness, Maybe it would cleanse off the purge. But he is afraid, He is weak, As his eyes weep along with his soul, he is constantly wondering of puffy eyes and swollen face and the questions he might face in the morning. 3 A.M. he doesn...