A strange pattern for
writing has came
to me lately.
The skeletons of
poems form when I
lie down for a nap.
Sleep always calls,
and bones want to
dance and grow skin.
Lilacs bloom, and I feel
the inner thigh of
eternity, soft and wet.

I can't get any rest.
I have to jot down the
notes or they turn
to ashes and blow away
Or, they are buried deep in
mud and slumber,
impossible to dig up.

I sleep with a notebook and
pen, as I drift off,
I whisper to the tortured
bones,
don't cry, and try not to worry.
I'll bring you to life.

What do you mean—
when you say, you love?
What’s the true meaning of love?

If you ask me what I believe,
Here is what I’d say—

Love is,
The unspoken wonder in someone’s eyes.
Or a gentle smile that shyly lies.

Love is,
A fragrance that clings to someone’s nose,
Or the melody in a voice that softly flows.

Love is,
A springtime flutter in someone’s chest,
Or a cooling breeze that brings the heart to rest.

Love is,
A storm that brews inside the soul,
Or butterflies dancing with no control.

And tell me, dear—
To explain what love really is,
Aren’t these enough
and simply bliss?

What could be a truer definition than this?

The 'you' I dream of always sees me near,
But the real 'you' won’t even glance, I fear.

The 'you' I imagine longs to talk to me,
But the real 'you' speaks only out of need, casually.

The 'you' in my mind loves me true and deep,
But the real 'you' leaves wounds that silently seep.

In crowds, the 'you' I dream of seeks my face,
But the real 'you' ignores me,
even in an empty place.

Why this difference, so cold, so stark?
Between the dream and the truth,
Why such a dark—
distant mark?

Love doesn’t bloom in just one glance,
At best, it sparks a sweet romance.

That spark becomes a silent call,
To know someone, to feel it all.
And slowly, softly, without a sound—
A quiet fondness wraps around.

A bond that time cannot erase,
It lives within a secret place.
It stays till death, so deep, so true—
That tender tie call love too.