*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

And whispers*


….. you.


Words unsaid,

Silence robs yet another story of its start,

‘Cause there was always so much to say,

But nothing to talk.