i forgot what it felt like
for you to lean over me,
covering my frail body from
the cold world.

i can't explain this,
because for every moment i
hate your presence,
there is another to
counter how i miss your smile.

we are not,
yet we used to be,
and i have fallen
in love with the sinful
glances we steal at each other,
the unspoken language we recite
with our bodies' every time you and
i are near.

the adultery of the century,
that will never be clear.

do you remember the time
you said,
"darling, come with me"
and the world melted away.

when your hand met my own
the sky became streaked
with a aurora  of
lilac petals and violet rivers.

how did i ever believe the
sky was beautiful before i
looked at it through this
kaleidoscope formed by
your fingers around mine?

for you..

a brush of your hand,
             meant -
i am glad i have you.

a hug with your head to the crook my neck,
             meant -
you are mine

a kiss before you drove away,
             meant -
i am coming back.

a hand on my cheek,
             meant -
i love you, why dont you see that?

for me...*

"i am scared to be alone,"
             meant -
i need to know you wont leave.

"i cant do this,"
             meant -
i do not want to hurt you.

"maybe one day,"
             meant -
i do not see you staying that long.*

"i prefer looking someone in the eye,"
             meant -
*i see what you mean with every action, but you refuse to
  see what i am saying. and that is why we never worked,
  because we both know you were to scared, and had only brushed the surface..."

Its wild in here

yet so peaceful

your love has made a forest out of me

she would write words
upon her hand on a whim,

words like
burn, drown, essence, crescent,
jingle, irony, scheme,
and i did not understand why.

when she would get
frustrated, and that line
would come between her brow,
she would begin to touch her face,
as she always did

and the ink would smudge
and smear and color her cheeks,
eyes, nose, a dark, deep, blue

and i still did not understand why,
until one time i asked her,
"why do you write on yourself?"

and she replied,
pen in hand,
"i wish to be a poem."