She had raw love
the one you don’t find easily,
the one that is hard to play with,
the one that destroys you.
but you will still keep asking for more
because it’s a poison
that would end your hidden sufferings
because she can make you believe
with her eyes and love
that you are missing something within
you don’t fear death now
you fear those eyes,
that love,
this life,
without her.
Love is like a Parisian night,
To which fanciful fools are drawn;
But tower lights, and stars alike,
All fade away at dawn.
Oh what a blessing it is to see you in the daylight,
Blue sky, green grass, and your skin, it glows,
I love the hot days where we stare the warmth, in our eyes.
I love the cool nights , where before we fall onto the beds, hoping to travel into the caressed dreamland
Ends decipher themselves,
As we trace the origins,
of us coming close,
and forgetting to waltz back
Into this slippery reality
You sit in the garden
swinging to and fro,
a shining sun
brilliant yellow with warmth
brightly painted oranges in your hand
or are they tangerines?
I do not know
for I was not invited
to this winter feast.
You sit with the others,
peals of laughter,
seeds of conversations
leak into my room somehow.
The pulp of the oranges
dripping from your lips
as you discard the peels
dulled by time
turning bitter and dry.
Let them fall to the dirty ground
uncared for and
unnecessary.
I forget their existence, the sun
and the warmth.
I remember us,
the pulp stained lips
and a thirst for never missing such feasts,
where your eyes inch this close to me.
where the breath turns citrus in unison.
And who do you become?
by swallowing a light deciphered
through a stained glass,
For its crystals are lattices of memory,
that have caressed your ghostly voiceless passages.
It breaks in an afternoon, you never noticed ,
The memory vaporizes
and before you know, it smells as if
someone remembers you in a time you forgot.
Do you become a ghost, savoured by unfiltered light, blinded to the earth by a touch that warms?
Is this how they mix, fear and nostalgia
to a heart that is child to its own and aloof of its lineage?
Do people tell you?
When you smile.
The moon cleaves itself in half
And my heart cleaves full.
Somedays, most days.
Like today.
If all the beauty in the world
ceases to exist someday,
You would still be the unwritten poem for me,
The one I could never finish.
For I fear, that if I do so,
You would be lost forever in this world,
in the unseen books and the untouched pages
and in the hands of all those admirers,
whose fingertips have forgotten,
the art of patience.
