the sapphire depthof my own love…startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.

sometimes i don’t know, which momentwhich cool gust of wind will come,and enchant metousling my hairand my heart, stirring…that familiar ache of poetry, which drop will kissthe old wrench in my soulreminding me, all over...

Someday I will walk under the soul-blossom tree with my hand eternally woven in yours.

our feet are grape-squashed in memoriesour skins are still flushedfrom the touch of summer’s lips.

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...

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.