Was he…?

I called him weirdo.
Often, had no clue what he said.
Not just me, even he!
A mix of literature, he read.

Pretended to be happy.
Pretended to be proud.
From within his loneliness;
screamed out loud.

I ignored it then.
Thinking he’ll come home.
But no one’s coming home.
When you are always alone.

His wanderlust was strange.
For he wandered within his mind.
Mad! Crazy! Psycho! I called him.
And ran, leaving him behind.

And today I sit by his corpse.
I regret I didn’t hear him.
A wonderful friend was he.

Or… was he just me?

Varun Rajagopalan.