The Torn World's

By Aashi Purohit

As I sat on my bed ripping letters you once wrote

I shed tears for the man who had promised not to leave,

Who would now forever become history.

For one, I wished to make my end,

but who forever remains my beginning,

I desperately want to forget.

To stop hurting as memories became old photographs

of someone I used to call my own

and letters become torn words of young love we once wrote.

Yet, like our words, torn they may be, my love remains

locked in the deepest parts of my soul to reminisce about the past

and the one I called my own.

By Aashi Purohit