If I learn to write again,
I would put into detail how
your eyes turn to steel blue
whenever you ask me about
the future name of our kids
running with their bikes on
Wisteria Lane

I would put into detail how
your morning coffee has the
smell of the sandalwood table
my father gifted my mother on
their 36th anniversary

I would also put into detail how
on nights I cry while struggling to
put three words and a sentence
on crumpled paper, you’d be
there.

There to run your palm over my
soaked shirt and whisper that I will forever be
your favorite writer.

(despite the fact I haven’t written our
grocery lists in months... scratch that, years)

I would learn to write again
to see how your face scrunch up
at every word I misplace or
commas I forget.

If I ever learn to write again,
I would write again for you.

If I hadn't fallen in love
I would have not known
that stars could dance in the eyes
That the moon could whisk me away
That the sun could live in the heart
and warm it and fill it with light
That clouds could shower kisses
And rain could touch like a lover
That the scent of flowers
could linger through the night
That the winds could play love melodies
That sunrises could colour a blush
And sunsets stir romance
That dreams could glisten at dawn
like drops of dew

I would have not known the magic
that is love
If I hadn't fallen in love
With you

The colorful leaves
Of autumn strew on the ground
Shows beauty in death.

We're only two of infinite stars.

Burning with desire,
Lusting after passion.

Caressing in the dark,
we were never a walk in the park.

Hidden and burdened,
a love that is forbidden.

No use in wishing on 11:11's,
flick away those fallen eyelashes.

A love made of tragedy,
imprinted on the stars.
Desire and passion,
ready to start a war.

Two of infinite stars,
part of different constellations,
a love, if that's what this is,
ending in entire damnation.

We're only two of infinite stars.
What made us think
we were meant to be from the start?

We're only two of infinite stars,
existing in a universe that's bound to keep us apart.

An artful liar, his words beautifully cheat all,
speaks nonsense any one can believe
with  consummate flair, sees the essence without effort,
it fits well in metaphors and imageries galore,
he has wings to fly anywhere with ease, see things up close.
The  wind of imagination he blows makes waves,
he is taken to  ecstatic heights riding on  its crest,
yet he doesn't accept, when they call him a poet,
"Just at those moments I am inspired" he says"call me a poet,
not all the time I am one, being a poet is not a profession
but an attribute others bestow on one, out of appreciation"