Writing about him
Is an addiction
That I convince myself
Is in remission,
But my heart knowingly
Sees through the deception.

Writing about him
Is an undying compulsion,
Just like loving him is.

It is not the air you breathe,
Not even the color of your skin.
But the way you speak
                      Makes me feel real...
The move of your hands
Involves me with sand/
The color of your eyes
Makes me fly through free skies

Take me with your words
To that place made of gold.
Let's dance with the moonlight,
Let's swim into the sun...
We will be melting my love.

I close my eyes
And gently trace
A finger on my lips
Vivid memories awaken
With a sigh,
And lazily eclipse
All reality
Now it's you and me,
My senses in your grip
Intoxicated, electrified by
Your finger on my lips

It is difficult-
Separating from yourself
A part of you,
A part of your ideas,
your dreams,
Letting go of elements
of your being,
For someone else's essence.
It is difficult, making room
for another's entity,
but then again,
when was Love ever easy?

I realised that Life
was a scheming, vile *****
the day I felt the pain
of a sudden, shattering loss
Indifferent, and unforgiving,
you may keep questioning it
fervently, relentlessly,
but it won't give you an answer.

Life isn't answerable to you,
It will cradle you with the
illusion that you're in control
Then will suddenly wihdraw,
And watch as you fall

Whoever spread the notion
that life was a gift,
forgot to mention that the gift was accursed
You could relish it for moments
But when it would be time,
It would leave you to darkness,
And never look behind.

Undraping before
Your generous eyes
One insecurity
At a time

I know it's not my responsibility
To fix him
But when I see him,
I see pieces separated with
Spaces of pain in between
Fuelling this urge in me
To seal them with caresses,
To heal them with kisses,
To re-write the tragic tale
That plays out in his eyes
Into a poem that sets into
Rhythm, his disarrayed life