do you hear that voice, my dear.
would you listen to the moon sing.
can you understand its words.
oh dear if you don't,
you just stare right into my eyes
and you'll know—the enchantment
of a confession; the reflection
you see in these eyes,
is its muse.

i have scars all over my body.
ones that you see,
and ones that you cannot see—
engraved deeper in my flesh;
down the bones,
penetrating my whole soul.

under the horizon
above the naked earth;
i'm half drawn to the sky
and half to my skin;
along with the flowers
of december, wilting.

but, It's half a fine day.
and I'm half convinced.
the day, is yet to end.
and if after all, i am failed;
to be fully drawn to the sky,
ever i lay to cold, until it warms.

and when all the noises die down,
silence will come serenading,
resonating you to rest,

let it
console
your soul.

heal through the night.
and live fearlessly
again, through the day.

is it not this morning
a breathe of captivating
yet unsettling air,
my dear?

as thoughts convince me,
the unjust impossibility
of knowing how the air
would smell different,

if only i know the scent
you have. quite aching
to realize. but it does
the heart good.

to think about this,
i mean. to think
about you.
i mean.

must you wander elsewhere,
selfishly could ever seem,
may you instinctively
seek for me.

grace is the morning,
greet it with gratitude;
and so do yourself too,
for keeping on,
for keeping on.

for have you not known by now,
the person standing in front of you,
became a mad poet, with deranged
semantics and demented letters,
offered to convey a lover’s
delusional affections.

in this flesh,
at its rawness,
inside these skins
and bones, all that I seek
and ever thirst for,
is peace.

at least a few lines,
might as well a word
or perhaps a period,
and only for that moment,
betrayal to “I would resist”,
in constant, shall happen.

brief and half-silent,
in an empty space,
at a corner of my room.
back against the wall,
arms hugging knees
close to the chest,
eyes mid-air,
breathing.

let's meet on spring,
when everything else of me is alive.
but when the season of autumn appears,
will you also come and arrive?
when everything else of me is wilting,
will you also come and arrive?

i soulfully wonder
of these devoted feelings i have.
because the quality it posses
is abysmally surpassing
the extremities of emotions.
simply to tell that,
i am madly
attracted.

such a wild thing to think.
how these thoughts,
romanticize your voice.
it’s all that i can hear,
all that i want to hear—
as if everything ever derived
from these id-driven impulses,
is to ask for only your voice.
only your voice.

not that this bothers me,
the shades of your silliness.
the presence, my dear.
because if it did then,
i would’ve ceased
at delivering these words.
admittedly then, the silly person,
i suppose, must be me.

it was a pronouncement
of a lifelong sentence.
“not a declaration of death”,
my friend kept on telling.
“at the least, yes”,
i answered.