I am a baby, I am a child, I am the innocent wonder in my eyes I am a glimpse, I am a sign, of someone I can be, someone I might I am not...

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

One clear moment, one of trance One missed step, one perfect dance One missed shot, one and only chance Life is all…but one fleeting glance.

whatever you dobe gentle with yourself.you don’t just livein this worldor your homeor your skin.you also livein someone’s eyes.

you are ever the only onei want to giveall the peachesin my heart tothe only one by whomi want them bruised.

your gazeacrossmy cheeksturned theminto strawberry fields.

poets. have the toughest jobin the universe-of turning silenceinto eloquence.

To fall in love with someone’s thoughts – the most intimate, splendid romance.

i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated….foreverin my mother’s arms.

For it is up to you and meto take solacein nostalgia’s armsand our abilityto create the everlastingfrom fleeting moments.

you are here.the moontides are here.and that’s all that matters.

all the wordsall the poems know my warm, soft spots.

What’s a rainy daywithout some deliciouscoffee-flavoured loneliness?

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway….of my life.

Give mea moon-blanket nightto keep me warma long-gone smileto comfort mea pair of rain-blue eyesto haunt mea simple soul…to love me.

Once in a while i am struckall over again… by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enoughto bruise a heart.

With callused handsi tastedthe softness of the moonin the coldest windsi discoveredmy soul’s warmest fireplacein the roughnessof his stubblethe tenderest love.

how can i everbreathe normally againafter having been cradledby the kind of sorrowso silent, that it nourishesafter having been sweptby the kind of joyso absolute, that it wounds.

Every heart must have its privatebestseller book.

my poetry is merely a body.you are the soul in my words.

my dear,we are all made of water. it’s okay to rage. sometimes it’s okay to rest. to recede.

and the afterglow…of your gaze…is the onlysweater that I need.

for those memories are nowjust like these little kittensI hold in my handsthose can be kissedand treasuredbut not held too tightly.

how these words, wait to diein the arms of all the poetry..yet to be written.

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.

what ismore beautifultears, in someone’s eyesfor meor in my eyesfor them.

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

all my lifei have looked for poemsto elope with.

I do not want to sleepfor fear I might miss the twinkle of the brightest starfor fear I may never knowhow the moon glimmers, in the darkest hour.

It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

there is some achingthat will only heal…in the mosque of sleep.

I want to have a romance so grand,it would have made Shakespeare fumble for words.

even in the loneliest momentsi have been therefor myself.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

my motheris pure radiance. she is the suni can touchand kissand holdwithout getting burnt.

i want to be in love with youthe same wayi am in love with the moonwith the lightshiningout of its soul.

when I finally begin to driftinto sleepyour memory is the…firstand the moonlightthe last, to kiss my face.

this life has been a landscape of painand still,flowersbloom in it.

i’m glad to be alive in a world wherehis gently awakening eyesnourish the morning sun.

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.

my love is a winter’s mistgently dissolvingthrough the windowat the nape of your neck.

for we all have our own twilights and mistsand abyssesto return to.

Love, bemysticalas the flickering blue flameof nightas the fully-awokenmoonbeneath cobwebsof passing cloudsamidst chantinghigh-tidesfuzzy,as my blanketbig enough to illuminate a hundredthousand billion galaxiesand just small enough to fitinto my embrace.

Like a speeding trainI am passing by…I don’t knowwhere I’m headingwith whom or whyall I know is thatI will never, everpass from here againall I know is I’m skidding forwardon this track of life.

Sometimes the rainfallsjust for you and meto be the violinplaying in the backgroundof our loneliness’s song.

the saddest thing is to bea minute to someone,when you’ve made them your eternity.

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

The world is thinningand the earth…it’s still spinningmy world is thinningand it’s all because of one person I’m missing.