A day with you is saying good morning to the sun with cups of coffee. Long walks, but longer talks, and feeling tingly. Pillow fights on white sheets in underwear with yellow smileys; bacon and eggs and pancakes and sausage, and peanuts with no grease.

A day with you is seeing the dusk with rainbows. Chocolate ice creams and cones and mangoes; KitKats and Cadburys and Oreos, with Lego House and marshmallows. Or maybe cookies and cola and not milk, while I hold your hand of silk. Or maybe some singing or dancing or playing the guitar. Or painting a portrait of the moon and stars.

A day with you is a night in July and rainy. And kissing you with some hugging too and three spoonfuls of honey. Then I'll cradle you, with lights out, as you doze sweetly beside me. I'll hum you to sleep with tender pattings on the hips, and watch your eyelids fall gently.

It was the color of your bedside lamp that paints the room just the same
when I am seeing you lay there on the bed watching Manchester United game
and when I move my leg inside the blanket we share to keep you tight
you'd give me that "I am here" smile and kiss my forehead goodnight
then when the morning knocks, I will find you still counting sheep
and I will find myself exhumed by the whisper of your sleep

It never left my mind, how I have always wanted to write a poem about the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the day.

I seem to have always waited. For the right moment. For the feeling. For the very thing that would hold my heart captive. And that, I told myself, I will forever wish.

Quarter past twleve one rainy midnight, I smiled to myself. I have always wanted the poem to be wordy. But I have never thought brevity could be this lovely:

     *You.
     It has always been you.
     And it will always be.

They say I write for love for I am in love, and they love the works I wrote.

But I can't help but be a little peeved, though still I smile with the gratefulness it connotes.

I wonder when will they hear the reprimands my heart whispers. That I do not write for love because I am in love, but I write of love because of you.

You are the grass of Spring, and loving you is like Fall. My heart is the leaves in golden blush, the hue of sunkissed skin in Summer; wrinkling, as if shy of the breeze, and softly toppling from boughs, avid to kiss the ground; and upon falling - shivering, as if caressed by the white dust of Winter.

Remember when your mom was all wrinkled brow and frowns as she kisses your scraped knee? And she tells you to be careful, don't get your skin scarred again. That's what we grow up to knowing: don't get ourselves hurt.

But then we fall in love. We give our hearts to somebody just to have it broken. Whether we count that as a privilege or not doesn't matter. 'Cause in the first place, we thought they would never crush it. But for some reason, he chooses another. For some reason, she gets tired. For some reason, people leave. But for some reason, we choose to stay. 'Cause in the first place, we never thought tears would come into play. Then we promise ourselves to never love once more. But like masochists craving for self-inflicted pain, we allow our hearts to again be taken away.

I want to hold your hand and feel its creases, the same that wrap around your pen. I want the immensity of your palm mantled on mine, its warmth that bruises my knuckles. I want to feel your fingers, and kiss the cold away its tips.

And if in every entanglement my touch could whisper, it would reassure,* "I love you. I'll forever hold your hand. I'll forever adore the solace I find in the tightness of your grip. I love you - and I am not letting go. So please don't."