I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eyeI am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in...

there have been morningsso quiet and tenderlike a poem, on Thursday’s lipsthat I wonderedif I’d been kissed at all…

may my touchalways…be tenderas i would strokemother’s cheekswhen she cried.

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someonewho will fall in lovewith your silence.

you areas fleetingly beautifulas a mother’s tearsand a father’s pranksa brother’s bachelorhoodand a best friend’s bad mooda bride’s glittering jittersand a handsome stranger’s smile.

in a worldfull oftemporary thingsyou area perpetual feeling.

I was coming together…limb by limb, after being brokenfor an infinity.

..i spill intothe kind of silenceonly Khalil Gibran would understand.

most of the timesit’s the hardest to saywhat I love moreyouor your memory.

you areso deliciousto my poetic side.

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.

I wish to stay drenchedforeverin those rain-blue eyesin those…soul-reaching crystalsnot moving a musclenor breathingjustsavoringthis turquoise acheagainst my heart.

love wounds me with soft pillows with tender lips and fingers

i am eithera stormor a drought.in-betweenshave neverbeen my thing.

love canembellish its beginningsing its blossomingand engrave its eternitiesbut can never explain its loss.

Tea is just an excuse.i am drinking this sunset, this evening.and you.

this heart yearns…for the salt of unsmelt airunswept thunderstorms…unknown adventures.

the ocean mist engulfs me, like a lifetime’s friendship honored.

to be a poet meansto live with a permanent wound forever susceptibleto either the shade of the skyor someone’s eyes.

funny how our heartswere designed to loveso fiercely.but break ever so gently.

because some thingssometimesaren’t ours to hold,but just beautiful to listen to.

a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand;but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon,when I don’t know, if you will ever come back.

As the sky prepares to settle its tired, aching feetinto the night’s velvet slippersI settle, into my armchair, soaking the teabag,of my thoughts, into warm liquidy stars.

we are all like poems. some of us rhyme. some don’t. some are Pulitzer prizessome are just scribblesand yet, we all possessa special kind of beautythat can either heal or cut to the boneone that can never quitebe fathomed, nor forgotten.

may this poetrybe the homeyou will someday come back to.

i am infinitely yearningbrimmingand overflowingin wordsi discoverit’s another wayfor meto be in tears.

tell meof something fiercer than the love with which i gaze upon youof something softer than the tendernesswith which i hold you.

I live there…Far above the song-filled clouds,where the dewdrops touch my skin so bareI live there.

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

I am filled time and againwith a heart-aching wonder when I thinkof the fireand frost of memoriesof the everlastingnessof lovethe solace of familyand the power of prayer.

my lovefor youwill always belike a mountain stream.quiet. persistent. continuous.

in the afterglowof an evening raini lay downin the grass and think of youmy body acheslike an after-kissbreaking in soft firesand wildflowersmy dear, i will always bethis tender for you.

some winterswill never meltsome summerswe’ll never freezeand some things will only… live in poems.

If I’m not around I hope you’ll remember me and together we will hold on to our favorite song.

When I write…I am in the fond armsof a childhood friendupon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawingsof my woes.

kisses… areand always will be the only language that I will have ever truly known.

When it comes to lovedo not eversettle for anythingless than magical.

I live there…where the birds are infiniteeverywherewhere they fleeit’s a place your eyes can wanderbut never seeWhere everyone accepts me,Without any pretenseIt’s a place your mind can picturebut never really comprehend.

the onewho will jolt awakeall the unwrittenthe unsungand the unlived in me. i am waitingfor him.

kisses happenwhen my morning blueberry muffin sails slowly upon my savoring tongue.

it was the kind of moonthat I would want to send back to my ancestorsand gift to my descendantsso they know that I too,have been bruised…by beauty.

how is it thathe’s alwaysin my thoughts. even when i am not thinking.

poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.

Poems are soft kitten furs. smoothing out the rough edges of my world.

give mea pillow of strongever-dependable shouldersthat i can bury my head in.

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

kisses explode when… someone believes in me when my heart cries out a song of thanks to yours.

love was never meant to bejust a metaphorbetween the pages of poetry.

may my faith always beat the end of the daylike a hummingbird…returningto its favorite flower.

The most beautiful, amazing and inevitable fact about life- Everything has a natural healing process.