He glaces from a corner

Won’t be much to look at.

But whenever it’d smile,

Every thing of Beauty 

Would seem to lose its lustre.’


at the back table….


Won’t readily unfurl its chapters,

Like an extrovert, chatty, receptionist.

It’d rather let you explore

Its every single aspect,

But from afar; 

Like the Moon magnetizing a Poet,

Yet not all in vain.’


tilts his head towards one side


 Won’t let you gaze into its eyes

For long, sweet, hours;

Sighing at the emptiness of its untasted touch.

It’d rather offer embarrassingly stolen glances,

Made to commemorate 

Under the abyss above the Stars.’


thoughts dreamily claim….

Love won’t crave 

For another moment to glide in.

Instead, it’d cherish

The short-lived memories;

Afraid of losing its fading rush.’



Rough around the edges,

Residing in unkempt sketches,

Not as feathery 

As the World fancies,

Cuckoo’s morning lesson:

Love would rather look something like……’

stealing one last glimpse of him

he whispers:


….. you.


Words unsaid,

Silence robs yet another story of its start,

‘Cause there was always so much to say,

But nothing to talk.