I am not writing to you anymore

I am not writing to you anymore

I wrote in words, in verse
however terse,
or out of shape, I opened up.

I gave us names, in hope
let my ideas elope,
into fantastical lands afar.

I painted hues, in time
borrowed, a crime,
from others who demanded more.

I dressed up, crossed cities,
booked a bloody restaurant too,
just an okay, so few?
what gives you the right!

to be miserly with words.

I am not writing to you anymore.

--

I breathe a sigh, heavy air
sit on a rickety chair,
look up and look kind.

I want say, slow and less
is a caress
of a different paintbrush.

I did not write, or fly 
a solitary, mundane, hi
I agree, is a weak stand-in.

Though in thought, and in mind
of an uncountable kind
you have lingered 
like clouds on the Kanchenjunga.

seen from valleys of Darjeeling.

I wish you do not write to me anymore.

You make me write, for you, instead.