Again,
there is an indication,
of tenderness between us,
it is like a pillow resting your head,
the onset of the new moon,
as is, that you and me repeats for its need,
rustling like a wing,
for once more,
you continually swarm me with your love,
your love that opens,
the wilderness of my heart,
and if your eyes are the only thing,
that sees me: habitually pleasing,
alluring in all familiar ways,
precedent and preferable,
and if it beckons to shape whatever,
we thrive for,
if it is longing or constant admiration,
you are favored to me my capricious one,
leave no traces or red kisses,
for I will miss you in every mild footsteps,
of the rain filling the earth,
with your warm welcome.

Each time,
I look at you,
may it be your face,
your lips,
your eyes,
or your shadow,
leaning against the tree,
I know,
I just know,
that this life,
is more than its circulation,
how long is eternity,
to be able to let you know,
how every thing becomes a little gift,
a grace uplifted from the heavens.

You do not know,
what it means to me,
to be true,
to be just by myself,
taking this moment,
in the pursuit of loving you,
with all that I am–
with all the inherent nature of necessity,
as it beckons to proceed to my willingness,
or to be thrilled,
even to be summoned particularly,
with your most intimate self:
the degree of closeness.

I personally believe,
it is the past that keeps on resurfacing,
but I am not quite conclusive enough,
to partake with these thoughts,
though somehow I am driven,
to be graceful upon my consent,
and I will rather choose being the one,
who is opt to lose this emotional event,
whether to love or in hopes,
that I can proceed further to my passions,
the virtues of my routine,
and cultivating my sense of self,
independent of my surroundings,
to create a bond of self-love.

I have made it for my self, made it through, or if I am mistaken, it is a relative coincidence within the constructs of my personal tenet. Is this air, the symbolism of breath, is this the fire that I happen to touch in your body, is this sorrow that a willow leans on the ground to see her reflection in the river, is this what it means to live, to sink into deep  and shallow waters, to tally its admonitions, or it happens to be there already and I am not understanding the language, the proverbial sum of love and loss, my longings, my mysteries and incisive idealism?

“To have loved you,
and wound myself:
heaven only knows why
I have succumbed to this emptiness,
darling, you have killed me by loving you– seconds, minutes, hours and lifetime.”

“I believe in life, the formation of the day, to the lining of the sea and sky. I believe that love and loss has boundaries, that the moment of separation does not truly turn the heart sour. I believe the migration of birds to be the beginning of spring. I believe in the disentwining of our hands until it withers. I believe in the creases of the sea and the palpitation of stars. I believe in last breath and its reincarnation. I believe in healing as well as the occurrence of joy, for this is what I am going to be, in a mirroring succession, you and I, oh just you and I respectively.”

All I wanted to say is this:
when I open myself like a wave,
or close my hands,
like a tentacular stem of a tree,
I am sensual of this love,
I am reminiscent as a candlelight:
my love bear with me,
for the real objects are not hidden,
in the soft caricature of the rising sun,
or by a descended hearing,
fluttering vision, starving touch,
but be it simply a recurring impulse or need,
clearing the pathways of my affection,
precious and remote, damp and cerebral.