He was the mouth for my poetry.
I would pen down his words;
The words that kissed his lips
And flew all the way to me.
His callous yet tender hands,
That brushed aside his roaming bangs.
His hair dark yet soft between my fingers,
While he would fly far away to his dreamland.
I would remember how it was these paradoxical features
Of his ,that I'd fallen hard for.
And then in the morning he would,
Like every time, rise alone;
not noticing the warmth beside him
on the bed, where I had sat holding onto him,
keeping evil from creeping into his lovely world.
I would nod intently when he would say
He had felt an angel caressing his temples
While he had kept fighting his demons away.
I would feel like a damsel
who had saved her knight in distress.
He had eyes so bright;
I just had to see the world through them,
And words would come to me naturally,
As singing comes to a nightingale;
As dancing comes to a peacock;
As battling comes to a warrior.
I would shudder at the intensity of his gaze
Every time I wittingly grazed his arm with mine.
At times ,when I feigned sleep
he would light my heart up
just with a brush of his lips on my eyelids.
The way he threw every word out of his heart,
words ,modest yet of all over the world,
of his sails over the oceans;
of his treks upon the mountains;
of his tales of peaceful times
alongside a murmuring waterfall,
My hands would ache to bring them all down
on the blank space of my mind,
streaking its white with his vehement colours.
Oh! It took me no second to know
that all the emotions that flew through me,from me,
my tears , my smile;
my rage ,my serenity;
my unease ,my solace;
my inability, my power;
my simile ,my metaphor;
my personified metaphysics, my paradox;
He was everything and he was more.
He was my poetry.