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In the time of grandiose love that's supposed to make you feel levitated and bash you with pink air, who tells you what not to feel? The pulsating fear or the shivers down your spine?

Who tells you about them? Well, carrying these questions here I present to you an excerpt from the series of confessional poems; Chitthi

I'm afraid to love you because I fear the impeccable possibility of my love consuming you, completely and utterly consuming you

You blink and I have a four-day euphoria to offer you until you blink again and the flames of my agony give you a burst of the real world and so I'm scared to blink again because when I do you're not there anymore

So, whoever you are "you" I have nothing to offer you but the elicit affair of my remorse and incapability to love kept on my lips, onset a wildfire to burn and let burn

Maybe love isn't made for me the way it has been birthed for you, I quietly lie in my bed while the bud petals have a cradle made for you, gently swinging you to the moon and so I don't want the possibility of those petals thudding on the ground, breaking the spine of love you own. Alas, the only thing I don't have!

And so am so eager with the intention to steal while you feed it to me with your own fingertips

Love looks like pity to me and is the last thing I might want to feed on

It's in the words that cross my mind forever but never touch the air between my pen and the page and so it is in the last four letters I want my ink to write

It's the gregarious affair of my disease and death and so is the last thing I want my blood to foster

To love is the last thing I want to love

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