To that lunar beauty,
And oh! Soft- vacant lips
A gesture of love-
The never forgotten secret kiss,
The future and the day after
Of love and loneliness
Seals the prayer of closure:
An organized mess
What would you call the petal-less beauty?
Plucked and plucked again to please your hopes.
What would you call smirking at couples in public
A lovelorn myth… loss?
An ode to the lunar beauty again,
That I never was for anyone.
Ode to the sillage of you that I love,
Which never really had you stunned
Would you call it a Petrarchan rage?
Of sitting on the single’s bench, as a couple
Or maybe that solitude of “an artistic guy”,
Who sits alone with a notebook at a couple’s table.
And I write something alone now.
My love: the dichotomy of being together yet alone.
The space abundant, yet so compressed,
The silence we exchange… they’re impressed!
What love do we share?
When there are no gazing and occupying of the corridors.
We eat alone sitting at the same table
We choose to walk with our friends instead,
Lack of amour?
And I am sitting at this foundation,
“Spirituality”, “cleansing”, “inspiration”
I don’t understand many of your emotions,
And your listless, wandering notions,
Your pessimistic potions
But I pause, I pray, and I praise.
And hope that I would one day see the line,
The line I never wish to erase.
I, perhaps, will be reminded, “Oh! What a gem of a person!”
Yet all I wish, and plead, and pray for is
To not see that line that separates us like darkness from that crescent-shaped peek
But the line that separates love from dismay,
Of solitude, both you and I were brought up with,
Of solitude, now your sanctuary, my misery
And yet I understand and love each of this,
But I need to, damn, I need to
Separate not us,
But love from loneliness.