*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.’
*He sits down
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 in vain.’
*He 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……’
*He steals one last glimpse of him
Silence robs yet another story of its start,
‘Cause there was always so much to say,
But nothing to talk.
– JAISMINE K.