Love Thy Lover


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.


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.


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.


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



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