Did you catch a tear while you were looking at me?  
Do you know how much I miss holding your hand?  
Did you miss me while you were talking to a friend?  

Do you know what song I sing when I feel you looking at the stars?  

Oh shining little star,  
are you away?  
Are you away?  

Can you take away my sorrow  
with your fairy hands?  
Oh shining star,  
are you away?  
Are you away?  

This poem sings a song.  
Are you away  
and not listening?  
Are you away?  

Oh sorrow, did you see the star that’s away?  
Oh, that’s away.  

Can I hold you and cry?  
Aren’t you my savior?  

Can I hold you  
and cry?  

Aren’t you my savior?  
Oh,  
aren’t you my savior?  

Is this another piece of a poem  
that I am writing?  
Is this piece in vain?  

Tell me, oh savior,  
can I hold you and cry?  

It is an embrace of everything that can be received.  
It is a special embrace of both your joys and sorrows.  

I hope you get plenty of light and happiness.  
©shivpoetesspriya

Why the Realm of Tears is Different?  
Always very unpleaded,  
Raw, the intent of emotions that carry within themselves and flow off with wounded feelings.  
But these unpleaded tears fall from the pleaded heart, showering the wisps that show the ruins of a wounded fleck.

Why is the realm of tears always different?  

When I say these words, it is not the words that form the structure for these emotions.  

The raw tears,  
Unpleaded they are,  
Honest they are.  

They are felt in the deep asserting realm inside the existing realm.  

Why are they so honest?  
Raw and  
Unpleaded.  

I think of wrapping their emotions in words to tell their plight.  

But their realm cannot be caged in words.  

They are felt.
With heart.  
In their natural realm.  

Why are they so different, pure light with some pain,  
Yet flow unpleadedly with a pleading heart?  

©️ shivpoetesspriya

My heart doesn't want to be a Gordian knot in a
scamper to solve any problem,  
so it has started acting up fashionably.

Fashionable, the term I thought was your situated
phrase feels more terrestrial here,  
not like tequila imagining a terabyte.  
The enclaving and composing scope of the internal
granite feature  
have begun to learn the preparedness to embrace the feelings of your knowing smile.

This process has made me reflect on the gooiest heart

that keeps remembering your glance.

My inner spectrum feels laughter in the mirth shrub of
elocution,  
so I must admit that it is not about the structure,  
but the snazzier, contemplative, and contemporary
spirit  
it gives me by allowing my heart to feel.

Then I remember the hundredth tension of the
connecting poles  
and the occupied hold of the heart,  
and I want to be your terrapin!

©shivpoetesspriya

I keep my heart racing for you.
But why did you leave me?
At this tender moment,
Why did you leave me?
At this soft juncture,
Why did you leave me?
When I wanted you so much,
Why did you leave me?

It is true,
some gems are forsaken.
But if you see clearly,
It is obvious,
you would see luminosity
in some piece of darkness.
That side of your sight,
Yes, there
you would see the slightest
tint of luminosity.
I call it my hope.

Why did you leave me?
But I see my hope dwelling in peace
and cycling through all the growth.

Why did you leave me?
I want my luminosity back.

I want it.
I always want it.
©shivpoetesspriya

You are too good to be a writer.
I love you.
You flourish in your emotions—I just love it.
You are bright in your thoughts—love it, love it.
Extraordinary love, indeed.

In the season I loved you,
I felt it in my heart,
and all the notable faces of fate turned towards me
to see if I had become strong in my pursuit
and how my wheels stayed so stable
despite the thorns on my path.

The cloaks of fate grew eager
to learn of my uproarious skills.
And they discovered that even the dead
had once engaged in worthwhile activities
during their lives.

Their innate selves began to check their own batteries,
and one old cloak, rich with the wisdom of bygone times,
held the middle pages of my book.
She sensed the bloodied tears soaked into those pages
and turned to the next one.
It was not as weathered as the previous page,
but rather a reflection of a broken heart.
The remaining pages of hopefulness held the fragments of that heart,
which never gave up on mending.

So the old cloak rendered her verdict:
When you love, you open your heart
and learn how to love, even if you don’t quite know how.
That will at least lead you towards peace
in the gentle light surrounding love
and will offer rest to your heart.

So the writer I knew truly loved love
with the core of their heart and overflowing enthusiasm.
My heart says—I am obliged and privileged
to have read all of you until this day,
and I will continue to learn from you.

Please accept my heartfelt gratitude,
warmed by the tears of enthusiasm
to immerse your heart in love.

Yours,
A faithful fellow writer,
Shivpoetesspriya
©shivpoetesspriya

Did you try to learn me?  
Too soon, it became a song of goodbye.  

Did I eavesdrop on your conversation?  

Did you try to learn me then?  
What would I do without these creative colors?  

I feel a yellow at the heart's center.  
I feel a pink from your tune in my heart.  
I feel a green river of your sound within me.  

I feel bluer, bluer when you appear so close to me.  

But please tell,  
Did you try to learn me?  

Yesterday, I felt the brightest light within me.  

I didn't know if I had eavesdropped on your conversation, but you took care of the flying doubts with your alerting whack!  
©shivpoetesspriya

This unfed breath feels the blessedness of reciting  
the poems about your hearty leanness  
that cannot be empty of loyalty.  

Your guardable luminary is  
sentinelled with spangly patience.  

I need you in my days  
of laughing and crying.  
Your enamored grin always  
helps me to move on.  

It provides an indefeasible crest of  
devotion, dealing with all the locus of control.  

An entrée of your elaborated  
gamut keeps my hope alive.  

The flight of yearning and  
longing tears away  
all my grief.  
To make a combination with this,  
can you create a circular path on  
the surface to protect my babylike lamentations?  

Your voice, as usual, shines off  
the revolving solidarity around my heart and its poetic hope.  
©shivpoetesspriya