Like the flower in my Maa's garden
which withered away, after all the love;
Maa wonders if she could have
Kept her alive a day or two longer.
And I think of you, if I could have
made you stay, with all my heart,
but you were one of those wildflowers
which died only a little more with love.

I am better with words
When they are in my head
As if the palette in my mind is clearer
For in your presence, I
More often than not, fumble
Finding the right colors of expression
Almost like how my inane paintbrush
Behaves on its familiar canvas
Dabbing colors at places where
They are not required or whimsically
Or adding streaks of hues to a
Flawlessly flawed hue
Hoping for articulation and
In the process my paintbrush and I
Ravage the art that had the
Potential of creating magic
So I leave it to you, if you may
To embrace me and
My myriad of unspoken words
Because the words
which are the most magical
are often the ones
Which are left unsaid.