There in the time, were you. Burning like light and moving like darkness. For being complete is nothing less than nothingness.

Maybe the hair strands are meant to cage the breeze. It is after all not an innocent brush of a passer-by. But a gaze, burning through every book employed to cover art, and every scent used as a decoy. A drizzle of steam on a melting face. An enactment of a blatantly romanticized pull, tugging at every vein to stand out in utter disbelief, what on earth befell the first hand that touched another?

There is a breeze stuck in your hair.
"How?"
Just like a bird begging to be free, although aware that the wilderness will be its death.

Maybe cinders are what birthed most of us. And instead of being cherished, we were set ablaze. And just like a volcano, we forgot how to erupt, we found peace in drifting arms. Although somewhat boiling, we were frozen to fever.

Maybe we aren't showers and sunlight but floods and hurricanes.

I've been searching for a window to a day, when words will have faces. Smudged, smiling and shy. All I found was a peephole to the midnight, when faces won't have words.
We can but touch glass to reminisce the hand held on the bridge behind a poster promising a longer summer

My words need meaning, they said. A profound lack of lustre is ******* the verses dry. The absence of a will to not frame riddles, is murdering every blot of ink in red. A noose hangs low from the title, and reaches the name by the time the sentences end. Every word comes as a punch of flesh on stone, unnecessary. A lucky draw of words thrown about for a prize less lottery.

What is more beautiful than an autumn of mess?
More meaningful than a heartache of happiness,
a nosebleed of ecstasy, a pint of pain with gin and love?
More laborious than saying everything and nothing?

Time is a fretboard.
"How?"
When we kissed, couldn't you hear the first note of the concerto?