I met him admist anxiety and chaos.
Looking at him, talking to him, never had I thought that he could ever matter to me in life.
Never had I thought that he would mean anything at all.
He showed out of nowhere, and there he was, no white horse, no knight in a shining armour,
Only he,and his running shoes.
Always ready to flee, at the scent of mishaps.
Quite a nose he had,I must say.
Has,actually.
Maybe his nose has lost it now. Too much work. Poor overworked nose.
Drained the poor little thing.
I remember the manner in which he looked at me, as if I were a dodo.
You are an alien,he announced one day.
What are you even supposed to reply to comments like that, you are stuck between a thank you and a screw you.
The only thing left to do is an awkward half smile and half frown.
Many a good things did happen.
That's the thing about times- they're always either good or bad.
We had both of those.
At good times we were we, at bad, it was only an I.
That was the thing about him, and his running shoes.
Fleeing at difficult times is an art, I must say.
And he was quite an artist.
He did always play those mind games well.
It was always me.
I was the heartbreaker.
I was the spoiler.
I was the one who killed it for him.
It was always me, never for once, was it he, or his running shoes.
I could never flee.
Never could I let him be.
I know not why,
I called myself a parasite,back then,
And the boy in the running shoes was my host.
Looking at him, talking to him, never had I thought that he could ever matter to me in life.
Never had I thought that he would mean anything at all.
He showed out of nowhere, and there he was, no white horse, no knight in a shining armour,
Only he,and his running shoes.
Always ready to flee, at the scent of mishaps.
Quite a nose he had,I must say.
Has,actually.
Maybe his nose has lost it now. Too much work. Poor overworked nose.
Drained the poor little thing.
I remember the manner in which he looked at me, as if I were a dodo.
You are an alien,he announced one day.
What are you even supposed to reply to comments like that, you are stuck between a thank you and a screw you.
The only thing left to do is an awkward half smile and half frown.
Many a good things did happen.
That's the thing about times- they're always either good or bad.
We had both of those.
At good times we were we, at bad, it was only an I.
That was the thing about him, and his running shoes.
Fleeing at difficult times is an art, I must say.
And he was quite an artist.
He did always play those mind games well.
It was always me.
I was the heartbreaker.
I was the spoiler.
I was the one who killed it for him.
It was always me, never for once, was it he, or his running shoes.
I could never flee.
Never could I let him be.
I know not why,
I called myself a parasite,back then,
And the boy in the running shoes was my host.