There's something in the silence of our words,
in the wait for our next ones,
in the ecstasy of the present grace.

There's something in the silence of our union.

I have gathered all time tellers,
grandfather clocks, alarm clocks, phones, watches -
to tell you that : I have all the time in the world for you.

It might not be the most sophisticated way
to say that I have an ear for listening and a heart for consolation,
but don't be too skeptical with my methods.

Forgive me, maybe, perhaps, if I can't be so bold and concise.
At least, now we've got all these antiques to talk about.

You're never too much.
I see calm and solace, a rescue amidst this dream called life.
But you are not a savior - merely a teacher.
And my heart doesn't scream love; it screams Love.

You - well, you don't scream at all.

I still can not write about you.

Because every time, every single time,
I have to stop myself from seeing the world through my pool of tears.
It is as if I have to watch you grow from afar.
And I do, I see you grow -
without me.

I have so many dimensions in me, and yet none that I could release to find you again.
It is as if I have lost you, and that you have left, but you have never gone.
Not once have I not thought about reliving every particle of you.

Every time.
Every single time.
I see you grow - apart and away.

Sunflower stood in the middle of the greenness that is Grass.
She was folding her yellow crown jewels,
singing with the wind about the ray of luminescent light
that sometimes is there in the darkness that is Sky.

Sunflower was planted in the dirt that is Earth.
She was extending her curly roots,
touching the tips to the core of terra,
burning the ends of Her,
but she knows a little pain is needed to experience Love.

Sunflower still stood on Grass,
looking towards Sky,
experiencing Love,
and Little Moon was ready to give all of that to Her.

It's a bit past midnight -
So light under these fluorescents, but so dark in my mind.

On a couch in college, I am reeking of ****** deeds earlier, -
and of avoidance too.
Eyes drooping to a standard hibernation position, I try to sit up to let my hands finish these questions on the latest Middle Eastern borders.
Yet, still there is left a dent in my heart for all the **** that happened in the past week.

A sociopath with morals.
A ******* wanting to reconnect.
A friend with overbearing qualities.
A mother dying to love me.
An idea with no promise.
A bucket of philosophy.

I hope I'm not the only one coming up with ideas of how to escape.

I've grown older;

I am grayed and abandoned,
but renewed with Love pouring unto me like golden water on a white, marble fountain
in front of the Taj Mahal.