Song.

I want to write poems around you
Find those simple words
Which keep on endlessly flowing
When I walk
With your hand loosely held in mine.

I want to sing songs.
Juvenile little ditties
Naughty rhythm
And gently sway
While I skip and dance to a strange melody.

I want to warm myself
Into you
Because I can feel the heat
Seeping through to my soul.

A Letter to the Lover of my Love

First of all,
I must beg you to
Love him.

For he deserves to be loved.

Well

I hope you love him
Like you love you.
No, perhaps more,
If you don't love yourself enough.

Love him like the way he wants you to
Love him like the way he needs
Love him
Because
It is important for you
You darling thing
To give yourself to his love

For
Somewhere in my love
I must have missed a part
Or a portion
Which remains to be filled
A little bit
That leaves the picture
Incomplete.

And I urge you to
Finish it. Add the last dot.

Lover of my love
Love him like I did not.

The stairs of my house are now studded with memories and visions and dreams.

This is nice.

When you sit silently beside me, and the tension stretches like thick, stringy taffy.

This is nice. 

The Second Wave...

There are those times when you are wading in chest deep water and the first wave hits you on the face, because you forget to duck or jump. Within a few seconds, even before you have time to recover, the second one hits you. And you are thrown back.

Sometimes, we hurt each other, I go first, you follow. Or you go first, I follow. In short, we pierce each other's skin wherever possible.

Not that we are cruel people. No, no, no. We aren't cruel to others.

We are only cruel to the other.

I sing silently when you curse beneath your breath.

You laugh delightedly when I squirm.

And then you tell me tales of your dreams and I am mesmerized by them.

And I tell you... nothing.

I withdraw and run.

It's... appropriate.

And now there is silence between us. Not peace. Just this uncomfortable silence which threatens to eat us up whole.

And still I stare at the phone.