That alluring cloud, just a whiff of vapor
                      that slowly dissolves.
Night has only specks of light
             sprinkled in smoky darkness.
Life is a murky  lake with
              swirling undercurrents.
Love is the only boat,
      that would float and ferry us safe.

Her intense presence
does something tender,
to his heart;
that eludes words.

               When she speaks,
               in a soft soothing tone,
               the pain she suffers,
                submerges, goes missing.
                How much she endures,
                how long,
               he can't fathom.
A silent grief
binds them together;
he is the mirror
that faithfully reflects.
He feels now
the gentle spread of moisture
enveloping them both;
dried up skin
on his face comes to life again.
Lips, curled up dry leaves,
are pumped up with chlorophyll,
turn towards her, the sun.
                                     He dissolves,
                                     in the thought
                                     of her pain,
                                     becomes her  tear drops,
                                     roll down and fall
                                     one
                                     by
                                     one.

Soaked in the silver light of your love,
I want to linger a while,
and love to tell my heart:
       here is a rare work of art,
by an artist, whom I adore.
As my eyes meet yours,
a  tenderness, moves my heart,
different from what I ever felt.

You too are full of light,
your eyes brim with words magical,
that needs no voice.
There are limits, yes, I should admit,
to how close two hearts could get.
But we could still remember
in spite of fog, that obscures our path,
that we are beings limitless.
We clearly see the light,
in which our hearts melt and fuse.
There is nothing that would stop us,
from being ethereally united.

This sandstone sculpture,
soft, ephemeral, unreal,
we create every moment,
just for ourselves,
fighting the fragile nature
of the material, that
       at once, facilitates,
       and equally resists,
       is both memory
       and forgetfulness,
      harmony and dissonance.
      Tongues of time active ever,
      love its taste, than anything else,
      gradually gobbles it up
with relish.
Come, stop by,
and appreciate.
It won't be here,
after some more summers,
but it won't be destroyed too.
It would be the grains ,
in any sandstorm,
for ever.

“i missed you”
you only say this because i was there next to you.
i smelled like apples and you had forgotten my long hair.
you only say this because the music gridded into us, and the
fog intertwined through our pores.
you only say you miss me when i’m close enough to miss.
you only say this because you took something of mine
i can never take back.
in a month,
maybe
a
week,
you’ll miss me, but not so frequently.
that ache in your heart will subside for a while.
you’ll forget the crisp smell, the touch of silk.
until next time,
until next time.