My mother told me early,
As if to warn me,
That some brains are bound to get hurt.

When I wrote my first poem,
Her smile was only temporary.
It faded when she mumbled that
Some empty souls, 
Never wondered about the stories,
That crept behind each speeding car,
And never thought
How those cars,
All moved so fast,
Either running away
Or into
Heartbreak.

And when it stormed,
The thunder as inviting as the unknown,
She laughed as I tied my dancing shoes,
Whispering that some spent too much time
Trying to fix their umbrellas,
That they never learnt
The importance of rain.

And when you left me,
She smiled hopelessly
Picking up the pieces of my heart,
Mumbling that
Some never stayed awake,
Half-asleep, half- possessed,
Agonized by the fact that every word
Had the power to push them deep
Into a ruthless, yet exciting,
Love.

And when I saw
That painted in her smile,
Were days of tears and sorrow,
She said that some brains don’t allow themselves to get hurt.

But we did.