The Anatomy of Longing: A Trilogy of a Burning Heart

The Prose Poem (Fluid & Cinematic)

I set out to map your face tonight, but my medical mind betrayed me. I saw a heart where I expected an oval—four distinct chambers where I tried to store dark Lindt chocolate, hazelnuts, and an overflow of love. Your eyes speak folklore, and your nose has that perfect, straight bone structure that catches the light. I wanted to be the tragic hero tonight, cinematic and bold, even if I lack the six-pack abs of a Hollywood lead. I envisioned your long, straight hair, imagining the chaotic sweetness of it brushing against me.

But reality stepped in. Barred by the fierce protective circle of your friends and professors, and halted by the cold intervention of the night patrol, I am left stranded. I still remember the day you went ballistic; your anger didn't look ugly—it made you shine. It turned a cold yellow into a glowing, vibrant pink, sharpening your features into something magnificent before you cast me out to face air cold. Now, I sit like a lone bird in the downpour. The heavens are opening up, mirroring this quiet burning in my chest, watching a heart break without fully understanding why.

How I wish I still had the privilege to walk into those shared spaces—to enter the chapel, the cell group, the commons, or the library. I feel foolish looking back, knowing I wasted my opportunity, stranded here without a clear reason why I linger. But if the heavens pour heavily today, I make myself a promise: I will welcome the downpour to wash this deep gloom away. I will stand out there, eating ice cream and dancing Al-Gult all the way.

Classic Manoj Style (Proof-read)

I thought it was oval,

But it looks heart's chambers char.

The two beautiful eyes that speak folklore.

The nose I like for its fairly straight line,

It has some bone.

Into the final chamber, I tried to place

Dark Lindt chocolate, 

hazelnuts, and love fultoo.

I thought I'd write an artistic description—

the aesthetic one—that she might love,

But it seems my medical background 

peeps into it again and again.

I thought, like Titanic, 

maybe today I'll get to see her.

It's Friday night, no?

But the angry faces of her friends and

Professors kept me locked in my place.

The Titanic hero... I think he resembles me,

Except for the nose, 

where I go with Tom and Brad more.

Even Brosnan made a case, 

and more recently, the Spider-Man.

But I don't have a six-pack to impress her.

She's beautiful, but could be described,

For that's what I set out to do.

The style of her hair—

long and straight, tricky.

For I feel, what if it enters my nose?

The night patrolling moral police 

stopped me once again in my tracks,

As I set out to find my missing link.

Life is hard. 

I navigate difficult paths, I reasoned,

Hoping for her to show up out of the blue.

The anger on her face, 

the day she went ballistic,

Made her look more pretty.

But before I could say a word, 

she cast me off from her side 

Is anger bad after all, 

if it makes people shine?

The yellow glowed as pink, 

and the features sharp.

As I sit alone, like a lone bird,

Unable to glimpse her lovely smile,

The heavens pour out like the other night.

It seems someone is aware.

Someone's watching as my heart 

breaks and burns,

Not knowing why.

How I wish I had the privilege 

To enter the chapel, the cell group, 

The commons, or the library.

I wasted my opportunity, 

as I seem foolish to myself,

Not knowing why I'm still here.

If it rains heavy today, 

I promise I'll love to wash my gloom away.

Eating ice cream as I dance,

Al-Gult all the way.

Rhyming & Rhythmic (Structured Poem)

I thought your face an oval, but it mimics a decree,

A heart with chambers four where I tried to plant a plea.

Into that final room I sought to pack a secret cache:

Dark Lindt, a trace of hazelnuts, and love within the ash.

Your eyes are speaking folklore, your nose is straight and fine,

A classic bone-set architecture catching the design.

I thought, like on the Titanic, I’d see your face tonight,

But angry walls of friends and guides kept me from the light.

I match the classic heroes—Brosnan, Tom, or Brad,

Or Spider-Man’s familiar face when things are turning bad.

Yet no six-pack is shining here to claim a grand embrace,

Just a solitary wanderer locked outside your space.

I dream about your hair tonight, so long and straight and fine,

A tricky, golden hazard if it crosses paths with mine.

But moral police patrolled the street and cut my journey brief,

As I set out to find the link to remedy my grief.

Life is hard, the paths are dark, I navigate the blue,

Hoping for a sudden spark, a glimpse of only you.

The day you went ballistic, your anger made you shine,

It sharpened every feature till it blurred the outer line.

The yellow glowed a vibrant pink, magnificent and rare,

Before you cast me off to face air cold.

And so I sit, a lone bird now, beneath a weeping sky,

As heaven pours its sorrow out, feeling my heart burn.

How I wish I had the privilege

To enter the chapel, the cell group, the commons, or the library

I wasted my opportunity

As I seem foolish to myself

Not knowing why I'm still here

If it rains heavy today I promise

I'll love to wash my gloom away

Eating ice cream as I dance

Al-Gult all the way.