I miss thee, I hath to admit
I want to witness again thy stunning smile so sweet
And how th' sun always kindly, and generously, touchest thy dark hair
Then shalt thou breakest into endless jokes and childish wit
'Fore rising a tender smile, as we greet each other by th' circular stairs.

I bet thou art still remarkable and stupendous as usual
Thou whom I'th known since last grey fall
By th' ponderous sleeping lake; in th' midst of a burly night;
Thou stared through me with a pair of unfathomable eyes;
as though thou couldst makest everything in my heart-better and right;
and yon, yon colourlessness of th' night, shinest so beautifully as butterflies.
Thou wert, indeedst, not th' paleness I had dreamed,
thou wert not bleak, thou wert not mean.
Thou still shined brightly though chilled and dimmed,
thou wert damp, but sunny-just like th' nearby shuffling trances
to which I had never been.
At times thou canst seem lazy, ah-but thou'rt indeedst not!
As just I do, thou liveth thy life from dot to dot,
thou leapest from time to time in my story,
thou, though far away, somehow always seem near,
and be sitting here idly with me and my poetry.
Thou might be close not to my ears,
but I canst listenest to thee; as thou eat and pray,
and as thou waketh, to every single inevitable day.
T'is life, which canst somehow be bitter,
shalt at times corruptest thy happiness and thy laughter;
wringing thee into false devotion and meanness,
but be sure, my love, t'at I shalt be thy cure;
I shalt be thy unhealed passion and all-new tenderness.
I shalt be thy first salvation, honesty and satiation;
I shalt be a scarf t'at giveth thee warmth, and thy hated mediation;
hated and dejected by t'is dreadful world, my love,
t'is world which knowest not t'at love is everything above.
And I shalt be thy heaven, and holiness,
and thy greenest grass when it is too dark,
as t'is world hurts and drivest away from frankness;
and within its grim sacrifice, lettest go of its single spark.
Ah, thee, thy innocence is just like my own soul,
but it is what makest thee divine as gold;
thou art ever pure, and incessantly pure,
and thy jokes and ventures and preachings flawless and true.
And in t'is weary life-which is sometimes faultless but unsure,
thou always makest me feel honoured;
makest me feel brand new.

Ah, Kozarev, thou art my immortal twin star,
and thy lips my sophisticated fragrant moon;
thou art my umbrella in yon idyllic heaven afar,
fade away not, but thou drifted away too soon!
My love, but sketchest again our undying night,
t'is time with a new ***** of light,
and giveth me comfort within which,
and flinch no more, for I shalt not flinch.
Thy genuinity is my nature,
thy childishness is my cure;
for t'ere are no more lips as naive as thine,
though t'ey oftentimes seemest spotless,
and t'eir toughness, seemest fine.

Ah, Kozzie, only fate t'at shalt makest out paths eventually align;
fate who hath sent me sweet prophecies, and a truthful bold sign.
Let me be thy grace, and thy sole, immortal lady;
let me be such craze, so t'at thou shalt always be with me.
I shalt be thy doll, and thy very own addict;
I shalt nursest, and cherishest thee every day of the week.
And joy, and its miraculous delight shalt be ours alone,
fallen fast asleep by night, and renewed by upcoming morns.
Together shalt we teasest every passing minute and hour;
and treatest all 'em nicely, just like how we deemeth t'at laugh, of ours.
And when nightfall greetest, sleep, my love, sleep;
thy red, innocent cheeks shalt I kiss; thy greatest dreams shalt I keep.

Kozarev, and fliest me again to th' melancholy Sofia,
wherein our peace shalt dwellest, and be cheered and alive.
But let me first fetch my old, talkative umbrella;
for Sofia shalt be full of rain; but one t'at makest it safe, and thrive.
Ah, Sofia, our little haven like yon nearby oak chatroom,
old as it is, but still-tenderer t'an t'is ever lonely gloom;
I bet Sofia is still warmer t'an t'is fraudulent war of my heart,
though it is, of now, far and sat by a land wholly apart.
Oh, Sofia, in which our love shalt be adequate, but still-inadequate,
for our love is more benign, ye' at times-more capricious t'an fate.
And it is raw, but ripe, like a mature cherry;
it hath neither tears, nor hate, nor brave worry!
Ah, my love; but again fly me, fly me, t'ere-
for cannot I waitest to live my life with thee;
and so promise t'at I shalt not bend, nor go else anywhere,
so long as thou shalt stayest, and liveth thy future years with me.

Oh, and I shalt forsaketh thee no more;
and disdaineth thee no more-thou art my sonata!
My delight liest in hearing thy sonnets be told;
thou sitting by me 'fore moonlight, down on th' starlit piazza!
Ah, Kozarev, please no longer makest my heart sore-
I am sick to death, I detestest t'is grief to th' core;
Burnest my heart's cries, and indulgest me in thy arms,
I shalt brimmest in thy glory; and gratefully lost, in thy charms.

As th' world turnest so weak and rough,
we shalt be th' sole ones to fall in love;
but our idyll is one t'is envious world cannot gather;
as it growest bleaker, as it turnest worse.
But Kozarev, having thee by my side shalt be enough;
and my days shalt be no more sad, nor tough;
Thou art th' candle, t'at lightest up th' life within me,
thou art th' candy, t'at livenest up all my poetry.

There was a part of me that thought this
Could go on till infinity
A part that wanted to stay locked in your arms
There was a part that believed we'd always find answers
To always mend the cracks and keep enjoying the charms
There was that part that kept hoping above all hopes
That the heartbeat of our affection never stops
That part that endured the thorns of roses
And your conundrumous tantrums in doses
One that wished we wouldn't run out of second chances
It was responsible for all those backward glances
There was a part that believed would keep reigniting the spark
No matter how cold the shoulders you gave us*
*But then there was another that saw darkness in our spark
An end in our start,pain in our gain
And fatal loneliness in our company
That at her inception our love had died
There was that part that felt how breathless we were
One that saw us on feeders even while still on tar
A side that always knew we wouldn't last
A side I loathed and didn't trust
One that prophesied like all metals so would our passion rust
No matter how strong we believed that ours true it was
However hard we evaded the looming wars
And now there's this part, that sends voices
Through the cracks in the scanty shards
Consequent to your goodbye and other choices
That still believes in us,this part says we have to try
That even if it makes us cry
what are tears
but a colourlessness liquid that will dry?
This part wants another journey with you
This part doesn't know Alphabet, it places I right next to you
This part sounds quite convincing
I think all along you've been the something missing
Precedent to the hollow emptiness in my heart
Come back, let's hurt each other again
After all even apart I'm lonely and it drives me insane
And I get more mad seeing you wallow in the mire of pain
Maybe hurt is a constant but we can
introduce variables to outweigh the aches
Come back,stop asking why it all went wrong
We will never know, maybe we was too weak or strong
Can't stand my mind saying you're my Exe
While another part of me thinks you a part of me

i.
dusk doesn’t feel like an end to me.
gladly, we play hide and seek amongst monuments
made in retrospect, and the sun doesn’t make us
go home until it’s already past dead. we drop
hearts on the unsuspecting, play make-believe in the
style of world war ii documentaries your grandfather
watches on the history channel. winston
churchill played with fire the way we play with
matchsticks and death and dying make
cameos fit for better actors. your rocking horse isn’t
fast enough. nagasaki still stinks of radiation.

ii.
we breathe, virtueless, shoes untied and headaches no
tylenol can hope to amend. there is
money involved, as there usually is, and
bills are exchanged from hand to soulless
hand, stench of cannabis like perfume in the air.
sobriety is elusive–you, effusive–we toast to
ambiguity and *** between stoners and
sinners. The ****** of yesteryear haunt street
corners we use for battleground, though the
fights take flight on rusted wings within the confines of our
heads, vacancy signs flashing in our pupils.
you reek immortal.

iii.
colourlessness is inevitable, but you always liked
noir films. i play you on first base, set myself
against flesh still pink with love bites from december
chill, and your lips tell a better story than
anything in black and white. we consume–we are all that’s
left. we don’t speak english until sunrise and by then we’re
telepathic. i don’t need words to say i love you.

iv.
we part, gasping for breath without sound in
clothes that don’t yet fit us right, doggy paddling because
they don’t actually teach you how to
swim in high school PE. you’re a
cartographer, your hands are
maps, and i am left bereft, grasping at substance too
thick for breath. i stop breathing, then, and
you haven’t held my hand since.

there is no wind. no movement.
the dust on the box is now its paint
also its paint is the sunlight that comes in from the creek of the window left ajar.
the windowpane, is broken from the edges.
on days of storm, this window strikes itself hard, back and forth, sounding an alarm for an empty home, to run and bring back clothes drying on the line.
there are no clothes. there is nobody to run. nobody to bolt the window shut.
everything is still. and melancholy.
but there are noises. the chirps? the cooker whistling? of water running- overflowing from the bucket, of an urgency to close the tap. of the gate. the gate opening, the fan whirring, a home. noises of a home.

there is colourlessness. the curtains untouched for weeks.
the walls, magnolia on some parts, cement on most. paint on some parts, crayons on most.
a broken toytrain, a doll with no hand sit on the showcase. there. dust sits on the toys.
carefully painted pots, filled with soil, but devoid of life. the soil craves to be watered.
but there are sunsets. was it red? or orange?  the aroma of tea. the sound of the box of biscuits being opened, sound of children screaming to catch the ball,
chirps? birds returning to their nests. returning home.

oh.
there he is, with his wrinkled veiny forehead resting on his wrinkled veiny hands, in the corner of the room, at the window, all alone, lying on the cot.
his eyes red and watery, of age, of wistfulness, could be either.
his foggy memories and and the window banging in the other room don't let him sleep.