You are too good to be a writer.
I love you.
You flourish in your emotions—I just love it.
You are bright in your thoughts—love it, love it.
Extraordinary love, indeed.

In the season I loved you,
I felt it in my heart,
and all the notable faces of fate turned towards me
to see if I had become strong in my pursuit
and how my wheels stayed so stable
despite the thorns on my path.

The cloaks of fate grew eager
to learn of my uproarious skills.
And they discovered that even the dead
had once engaged in worthwhile activities
during their lives.

Their innate selves began to check their own batteries,
and one old cloak, rich with the wisdom of bygone times,
held the middle pages of my book.
She sensed the bloodied tears soaked into those pages
and turned to the next one.
It was not as weathered as the previous page,
but rather a reflection of a broken heart.
The remaining pages of hopefulness held the fragments of that heart,
which never gave up on mending.

So the old cloak rendered her verdict:
When you love, you open your heart
and learn how to love, even if you don’t quite know how.
That will at least lead you towards peace
in the gentle light surrounding love
and will offer rest to your heart.

So the writer I knew truly loved love
with the core of their heart and overflowing enthusiasm.
My heart says—I am obliged and privileged
to have read all of you until this day,
and I will continue to learn from you.

Please accept my heartfelt gratitude,
warmed by the tears of enthusiasm
to immerse your heart in love.

Yours,
A faithful fellow writer,
Shivpoetesspriya
©shivpoetesspriya