In the cadence of a chai-stained dream,
Are you the spice that lingers, or a fleeting sugar high?
Will this yearning ripen into a love supreme,
Or fade like a forbidden beneath a starlit sky?

The ancient verses whisper on the wind, they say,
"Can even the Himalayas predict the monsoon's sway?"
A tempest of emotions, a monsoon in my heart,
Why this chasm between us, where two souls can't quite start?

You, a valley lush with melody, your voice a cascading stream,
And I, a concrete jungle yearning for a wilder theme.
Would you bloom in the chaos, this urban symphony?
For I confess, my darling, I am a creature of dependency.

In hushed tones, beneath the city's gentle hum,
I crave the rhythm of your being, a thrum against my own drum.
Let our bodies be the bridge, hearts whispering in the near,
For in this closeness, darling, all distance disappears.

Deliver me, with magic spell,
with gliding bow and ringing bell,
from this dark and dreary mood so fell.

The clock counts its minutes and its hours;
we obey its rhythmic, ordered powers
in the prisons of our shining towers.

The clock is but an artifice
from a tyrant’s workshop’s abyss.
Time was made for more than this.

Count not the hours, but the beat,
tap it with your dancing feet,
clap it, sing it, in the street.

A flute of bone was made before
the timecard and the clock kept score.
Our forbears knew what time was for.

I remember the evening
that we sat clinging
to paper cups
of coffee gone cold

over secrets spilled and memories told
two bodies cursed
with hearts grown old

behind your eyes
I found new worlds
A winding road stretched out for miles
to a small cafe at the end of the isle

Sweet pastries filled the mouths
of those who sat beside us
and stayed for a while.

How the hours went by,
people just passing through
The descending sun ending
a forever with you.