Even as the golden embers of the Sun
sweep the rough surfaces of wood,
the rays command the light to twist,
to show the perfectly imperfect portrait of life.

Even as nature's breath let
the crisp autumn leaves sway with the air,
you don't cease your own little dance
within the children's sandbox.

Even as your eyes crinkle along the edges
with your nose crunching like a flower bud,
you seem as if you were Touch-Me-Nots
that found its way to become a Sunflower.

Even as we align like a seesaw
with weights that drift us apart to a distance, but
bring us closer to the equilibrium,
we would always be close but never quite there.

Even as I see you the way that I do,
even if my words won't reach you,
I write all these to let other seedlings know
of a special flower called *you.

Littered on my skin are memories,
of gall and glory;
the coarse touches that fabricated
these mars and scars.
But no being discerns any of these.
They see the wildfire within you,
the flames that engulf
your entire being.
Yet, you are more than that —
more than the destruction which you are.
I am nothing but a minuscule spec
of dust and grime compared to you.
I’ve been with you, for ages, longer,
longer than anyone has known you.
I glance at you from afar, as I
spin around the world and orbit around you.
I get closer to you each step,
but I am drawn back.
The moments where we embrace,
embrace that encumbrance between us.
The stellar beings are jealous,
that we get to lace our dust
and the luminance that emits from us.
We seldom get a chance to intertwine
our cores, to show and tell
the fondness that we attained
for one another.
They say we were
predestined by the Divine,
fated since the beginning of creation.
You give me the luminance that I
cannot obtain without you.
But by the moment we truly clash,
the galaxies will all cease.
To pacify my strife, I then ask the stars
if they could grant my wish
of showing you the memories I cannot give.