Love Thy Lover

Wordsmith:

He smells of old parchment,

A faint trace of a man

Who still laughs like a child

And cries like one.

I see the curve of his hands,

in the shape of words crafted to perfection.

A flash of colour that streaks

the canvas of my younger mind.

Lightning:

He blazes across the horizon

The soft rain a warm caress,

that lasts just that long, an instant,

On my cheek, as if to say

“Always remember, I think of you.”

Scorches my soul, the purest white,

In the freezing showers, I still look out

For my lighthouse in the sky.

Weaver:

He takes my tangled threads gently,

Into his hands as he kisses them,

and knots them further,

into seemingly random weaves.

Dyes them red, and grey, and

a shade of brown he resembles,

He is exquisitely clad in

A fragment of my pain.

Voice:

He is the tenor of my art,

A lover, of the beauty I try to hide,

He sifts it out and holds it into the air,

And laughs as I wince.

Yet I paint words at his door,

and leave them as a mark,

For that shared thought we both

struggle to understand.

Blind spot:

He looks everywhere

except the corners I throw open to him

The shreds of dark are unknown,

In his vision of radiance.

I smile, at his impertinence,

and my indifference.

 

-Amrita Brahmo | Edited by Arbaz Fahad

 

 


Image source: pixabay.com




Share With Friends