is it not this morning
a breathe of captivating
yet unsettling air,
my dear?

as thoughts convince me,
the unjust impossibility
of knowing how the air
would smell different,

if only i know the scent
you have. quite aching
to realize. but it does
the heart good.

to think about this,
i mean. to think
about you.
i mean.

such a wild thing to think.
how these thoughts,
romanticize your voice.
it’s all that i can hear,
all that i want to hear—
as if everything ever derived
from these id-driven impulses,
is to ask for only your voice.
only your voice.

for have you not known by now,
the person standing in front of you,
became a mad poet, with deranged
semantics and demented letters,
offered to convey a lover’s
delusional affections.

do you hear that voice, my dear.
would you listen to the moon sing.
can you understand its words.
oh dear if you don't,
you just stare right into my eyes
and you'll know—the enchantment
of a confession; the reflection
you see in these eyes,
is its muse.

let's meet on spring,
when everything else of me is alive.
but when the season of autumn appears,
will you also come and arrive?
when everything else of me is wilting,
will you also come and arrive?

grace is the morning,
greet it with gratitude;
and so do yourself too,
for keeping on,
for keeping on.

and when all the noises die down,
silence will come serenading,
resonating you to rest,

let it
console
your soul.

heal through the night.
and live fearlessly
again, through the day.