Love, when you send me a letter,
once send it as a blank paper…
with just your smell in it,
propelling me into the wild.
And then would come my reply,
page dipped – soaked in ink,
having no words written on it.
Keep that along your bed side.
No paper weight can hold it tight.
Acknowledge, that it is my heart sink,
embedded are toxic fumes in it.
They are just for you to remind…
I’m a man of simple tastes.
Our pleasures are juvenile.
I wish as much to be yours, like you mine.
Break it – for you, it has “No last line.”
– Dedicated to a particular specie of love… “love too soon”, which also happens to be a “love too later”.
Image credits: Photo-stock site. (It’s never a blank paper…. is it?)