Whispers Of Old Papers

By Sreeraksha Sreeram

The moths wing whispers

Under the hushed candlelight

The rustling of old paper

The smell of fresh ink

My pet owl inside

Stares as it blinks

Crisp vintage letters

That I'd never send

Tucked in a leather journal

That won't ever have an end

There's beauty in melancholy

A writer would know, surely

Wrapped with rhyme

The version of you that'll never be mine

Every hero

Is a villain in one's story

The words if spoken aloud

Would make me the monster in every memory

So I write instead

And put on a smiling facade 

By Sreeraksha Sreeram