i read a poem that he wrote a few days back
and i realized how no one understood his words
i wanted to tell him that i still remembered his scars
i wanted to tell him that i knew whom he wrote it for

with every rhyme that he had knitted,
with every full stop that he had added
i knew exactly what he wanted to share
i knew exactly what he wanted hid in layers.

his poem was nothing but a cluster of words
that felt like a secret message to me.
his poem was nothing but a confession at 2 am
that felt like a desperate and helpless plea.

like the skin grows back to heal the wound,
we humans like to stay together to fix each other.

I have seen people fall in love and die in love
they look beautiful, they look satisfied
even when in pain, they look at you with smiles
I never understood the mystery behind
until I fell in love, (yes I did once in my life)

I fell in love when I wrote my first words
I fell in love when they formed into a rhyme
I fell in love when I read it again
God, I swear I never fell more in love
than I did when I began to write.

i remember there was a thunderstorm that night
those flickering candles and the scent of the rain
something more intense was happening inside
on that old couch in the backyard studio
with paint on your hands you were painting me right
eyes closed, lips locked, i could feel each stroke
of your scrappy fingertips on my thighs
the sky roared furiously and so did you
waking up the demons that had long died
i wanted more; both you and the storm
i wanted just some more time