For those poems that you write to me,
measure each word each space, each
sentence they carry, as they pierce
my heart and then live inside like seeds
that become wild flowers and rare trees
and outgrow a forest that I find
myself lost in.
For those songs that you listen in loop,
which I admire like a moon, measure
resonance of each note, kiss of each
instrument, as they just not debauch
your heart but reign chaos here as well,
as thousand butterflies blooming the view
I inhale in.
For those breaths that you take while
thinking of me, measure each one in,
and each sigh that is leaving…
Since, they here return to me as a
dark sky down-pouring all of wishes
that I have yet not forgotten how to
invest myself in.
For those laughs that you have again,
remembering my stupidities, my naivety,
measure their echo, and count tears
that follow… with each drop you
shed my soul floods, and echo raises
the ripples, they keep me distant from
a deep sleeping.
For those dreams in which you find me
unhelpingly, measure your will along
every difficulty, for each step of yours
in direction opposite takes you farther,
but new web weaves here tightening
threads on me, shrinking unwanted reality
I am wrapped in.
Since you can’t leave those habits of yours,
then why not count one more in?
– Dedicated to the lover that won’t stop loving, yet won’t be with the beloved. Also dedicated to one of my favorite authors: Vladimir Nabokov (Who was born on 22nd April).
Art work/ Image credits:
1. A butterfly drawn by Nabokov in a book given to Vera. Source: Russia Beyond the Headlines
2. A Book Sculpture by Su Blackwell.