Out of love - 107!

You could die
More than a hundred times
Each day, just for that
But my love when have
The likes of them cared
For our breath or death?
———————
How deep is the red,
How shallow is your pink,
How confused is your heart
As it pulls its strings.
————————-
One day when fresh air,
clean water and a warm hug wrap the tragic;
it’ll all turn into magic.
———————
Sometimes, it’s not labour of love,
It’s just unacknowledged labour,
But isn’t it the tendency of any form of labour,
To tire, tear and eventually heal and love?
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I want to call myself a poet
If not a poet, then at least a wannabe poet
But then each time I see the sun
Lose itself to the sea
And turn it all into gold
I don’t know how I feel
What I feel
What metaphor would describe its feel
But, I know that it is poetry,
Exactly the kind which
Rumi, Dickson and Ghalib
Have tried to write about
It is that gold we seek & crave
The gold which feels like,
Love, peace, solace, self.
—————-
But my love,
How do I tell you,
I don’t want a lot from you
I just want more of you.
—————-
But waiting too is a form of catharsis,
Keeping a dead hope alive,
Waiting for ashes to ignite,
Dream, and magic alike.
——————
But the biggest question is
How did I surrender my all,
To your none?
—————-
There is lightening,
When the clouds hurt,
The time when their heart rips apart,
But have you seen the sky,
Get perturbed by these,
Occasional heartbreaks?
——————-
Tonight, I must bleed
So that it does not clot
And kill my being.

Tonight, I must bleed
To let it all out,
For all of it to leave.

Tonight, I must bleed
So that I don't wake up
To our stale memories.

Tonight, I must bleed,
To heal,
To set all of it free.