Bear in mind – as I conjured an image of a bear in my mind,
both indulging in a few rounds at the bar; raising the bar to
dizzying heights, till one of us might succumb to intoxication.

A rather fishy scenario, devoid of any fishy breakfast beneath
the bear's breath, reminiscent of a grizzly confrontation.

Yet, we diligently tailed our cocktails at the counter –
chasing after them without any count of remorse.
For we both loathed the winter that awaited us beyond those
bar doors, devising a scheme to drink deeply enough to drift
into slumber and embrace the idea of hibernation.

I guess that’s what you get when a man has cocktails with
a bear at the bar - only to discover that by the end, I was left
with a solitary bear, while my wallet lay stripped of its treasures,
solitary bare.

In the tender years of my youth, at the age of sixteen, my prayers
soared high, burdened by doubts and fears, I yearned to remain
unseen - I recall the torrents of tears that cascaded when I was
merely ten, for it was in those fleeting moments that I unearthed
my strength within.  

I envisioned a future self, brimming with wisdom by twenty-one,  
a life meticulously charted, a race already won; I dreamt vividly of
a wedding by the age of twenty-three - as a spectacle to impress my
brothers, who loomed like giants to me.  

Once, the shadows were a terror from which I would swiftly flee,  
now they serve as a sanctuary where I sometimes crave to be free.  
I once believed friendship was a vast, bustling expanse, yet I find
solace in the few friendships, where I can truly take a chance.  

And my life remains still unfinished, unfinished as this poem…

I was the pencil that etched the silhouette of your love –
a shadow standing as a sentinel as you strode ahead.
I was your pen, inscribing these lines with the ink
of my tears – I tore away the initial pages of the first
love letters I crafted for you.

Love is blind… I don’t see much of you in either
of my thoughts or dreams.

How must I refer to you now, when all the references
on how to love were born from the moments we shared –
all the descriptions I experienced when it was still
me and you?

I only seem to see you now as just a silhouette.

Tearing up in the most peculiar of ways,
I’m merely another chapter, unfolding with each
new page for every dawn—my narrative, born from
an unexpected prologue, leaves me pondering the
conclusion.

It should be an inclusive story,
but it's often so exclusive to the author’s constant habits
of being a reclusive – my eyes could narrate ten thousand
muses; yet the art of writing these days, has become so
elusive.

I was once a pen, transformed into the very letters
that compose each sentence, and crafting a narrative.
And with every sunrise, I pen another page in this
Book of I.

Sending me tender kisses like airbags, softening the blows to my
heart; your service with a smile radiates warmth as I stand in line,
eager to sketch the portrait of our love— chasing after sparks, once
your heart starts to believe you’ve found the one.

Making daylight savings – to awaken with the sun, its golden rays
dance upon your cheek, radiating warmth that yearns to envelop me.
Yet, I ponder— will a touch more of this brilliance consume me, or
shall I remain alert– do I stay woke,

or…

spend most of the day in a daydream, cherishing this infatuation,
cradling it close to my heart, preserving our moments for a future
where courage blooms within me, allowing me to finally ask you to
be my wife.

“Perhaps yes, or maybe not” – I’ve pluck the petals of my choices,
now lingering on the tenth flower.

                                             I think I'm in love with you Daisy.

_

No longer do I feel the urge to weep – as I lift my gaze to behold an
endless ocean; I navigate a life woven with threads of self-doubt.
Plucking at my mind, a bloom with countless petals – eager for
growth, yet the nourishment of my spirit, is drawn from the parched
earth of this world.

These days unfold like a mirage, trapped within a grotesque nightmare, spiritually and morally barren at times – when I lose the art of dreaming.

I place my hopes where echoes linger – casting my heart into a fervour,
wishing it ricochets off the walls. Drifting through life with a hollow checklist – an existence devoid of meaning, yet I persist, sustained by
a God who still believes in me, and in the essence of my soul.

Enthralling – the vanished fragrances; my olfactory senses
are akin to a daisy, each petal plucked accompanied by
a murmur of “if she loves me, loves me not”

Her scent – sends sparks of shivers through me;
a fragrance bold enough to fill the space, gentle
not to drop it all.

My dear, is that very scent that ensnared my heart.