Poetry

Broken record

I call myself a lonerĀ 
My nights look a lot like
sinking ships.
Broken record.
Some photographs
(Which now exist only for me)
A yellow box of memories.
A half moon tattoo
(Other half left along with you)
2:30 AM
A bottle of vodka
A hour of regrets
And some intoxicated smiles.
Somehow, all your songs
are now part of my playlist

and then this one plays
‘Tum Itna Jo Muskura Rahe Ho…’
And I smiled again
hiding all of lying within .

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