This Poem doesn't Rhyme
We stood in front of the mirror,
still and stagnant;
“Define me.” she said,
while her arms tugged me. Close like magnets.
deep into her eyes,
it was ocean-like.
Two intense, wobbly things
I could see strange, unilluminated secrets inside.
Defining her was inhuman.
like an angel of death would ask in your deep sleep.
A sleep, where you wouldn’t breath again.
Where could I begin, Where would I end?
She would be the collation of all poems,
since ancient - till date.
like wind, like waves.
Strands of her hair, on her temples,
like little kids on a summer’s haze.
like puddles on a rainy day,
So natural, so beautiful.
Diversifying thoughts flooded my cerebrum,
They inebriate me,
like a living, breathing person with belly full of whiskey
Her heart, so chaste. A soul, bona fide.
The tips of my finger, caressed her skin.
She twirled towards me,
Like a spinning top dancing in joy.
Fingers intervened. Intact.
In fact, I realised;
She wasn’t beguiling.
A prepossessing heart.
She was art, not the type you hang in exhibitions.
An art, you keep in your room.
A painting you wake up everyday to.
“You are the beauty’s soul,
You are a goddess in whole.
You are the secret between mystery and time,
You are a poem that doesn’t need to rhyme.”
My writing is about my significant other. She's the reason behind most of the things I write.
I love to write. Sometimes, that is the only company I wish to have. Writing is the only way you let your heart talk.