By Ankit Chaudhari
All for the things that has gone, through the life that was dreamt, if it once was possible, in an amend for the love, give those calls back to me, the records of that have been there.
Somewhere through some connected space, maybe would have accidentally kept it, from someone who kept it safe,
in sympathy, someone would have lived it.
If someone can, all of the calls I made to her, of those time on the phone, just the talks, nothing else, give me that little bit of fake or real, I don't know which one was it,
just a tangled being in my head.
Let me leave through them again.
Let me feel the same comfort in vain. Now, when things are real, feels so small and temporal, as it felt long and everlasting there, Let me feel that same power in frame, Let me take that one last step, to be lost till I die,
in that illusion all over again.