This moment my mind is bereft of poetry, yet I want to write nothing but a poem.

A portion of life, every moment gets torn out of me hurting, and flees away.

This moment everything is present here, except the things that are not here.

This moment everything is present here, except the things that are not here, and I'm not feeling like disturbing them.

It was crucial to understand whether that moment was immensely hurtful or was awfully affectionate for me.