It’s hard to find that perfect verse, which breathes you in all the while it’s terse.
Dear,
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
Your photographs always lie. People often lie about not seeing you and not having any wish to either while secretly wishing that they could see you a little more. Isn’t that why they always talk about not seeing you, but always talk about you? I know their lie because I can see their eyes watching you, which you are blissfully unaware of. I lie to everyone, except to you, and myself. Other times, I don’t talk at all. For every single time these people lie, a part of me feels offended and enraged, for I cannot fathom why they would not desire someone like you. And yet, a part of me somersaults jubilantly when they do so. The reason for this ambiguity, if you may ask, would be that I am not sure of anything anymore; not sure of what people tell me, or of what they hide, of what You hide.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
To first impressions my heart’s inclined, and prettier faces it oft declines. No one knows when I look (at you), and yet I know my day is through. I remember the exact moment I knew I couldn’t have taken more. It is burnt into my memory. You were dressed in black and were brutally beautiful. How much was I tempted to tell you what I was going through and all I could muster was, a Facebook friend request? Sadly, (ironically, gladly) you never wore black again.
One look (at you, and not of you) - is all it takes, to set my heart on fire all over again.
I know you know that I see you, and probably you know that I like to see you (I’ve made my intentions known to you, have I not? Think). It is funny that just seeing you is enough. In fickle moments of indecisiveness as these, I’ve often crossed the line, walked the no-man’s-land towards you, and then retracted, leaving conversations frayed and broken; But, I am yet to regret any of it. I particularly enjoy matching up to your eyes as yours recede and you hold your gaze to mine. I so wish that you do it intentionally, for me. I don't think that you could be the assassin they tell me that you are. Even then, I think I will be granted my last wish.
You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
What I am afraid of is that you might be reading this, and that you, for a lone moment are tempted to ask me if it is you that I am talking about. I don’t want to keep you in doubt, you should know that it always has been you. Here again I don’t know if I want that or not, because I have a tendency of self-destruction which makes me wish you do. If you give into that temptation, I am afraid I will be too overwhelmed to lie. I might just tell you everything, because I lie to everyone about you, but you and me. I know about the doggerel in my prose, but hey, I’m still alive and trying to write paeans in your name (without your name). My mind vehemently denies to think of possibilities thence.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
I’m ambivalent at best and tormented too, but I get a certain high from such masochism in this particular case. I want you and I don’t. You can say I live a secret love life. It surfaces when I think of you, and then elopes into anonymity for the rest of time. I don’t dream of you, but I often think about you. You’re not a dream but a priority, like the sacred altars which I must visit regularly. You reside in my conscience and hold enough sway to move back in when you want. You are a big disruption that I don’t wish to get rid of.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
P.S. Most verses are from Pablo Neruda’s ‘Every Day you Play’
(Image Sources: Google and Deviant Art)