But I am at loss for words
When it comes to your name.
My tongue plays hide and seek
With the folds of your sweet letters.
My lips play a long lost smile
At the sight of your eyes,
Uniting with my soul.
I am at loss for descriptions
When it comes to describing how time passes with you.
See, if I were a scientist, you would -definitely-
Be an experiment of mine;
The way you still look at me like that
Even after a year-
A year of you loving me, leaving me, breaking me, but
How can I describe "love" using my own words
When the only thing that crosses my mind is your
"You bring me happiness,"
"God sent you to save me,"
"You are worth the risk..." /?
I was once told that I'm good at dominating language,
But the mere collision of your lips and my tender skin,
Fills my mind with ecstatic fog, and i sit there
As the language I have always dominated,
Evaporates into thin air.
Love, I will never get tired,
From the sight of your open palm,
Gently whispering to my heart,
"Come. Trust me, and let us be..."
And I sit there
As my helpless fingers tangle with yours,
And the language I have always dominated,
Slips through our flawed cracks,
And falls into the pit of our lust.
How can I describe "love"
When I don't even know how it looks like?
All I know is that we were puppets of this life,
Perhaps maybe only some cigarette buds,
Who life chose to run into each other
On a rainy Tuesday night;
Once we met, we held the pens and started editing each other's
As if we were entitled to be the leading characters of one another's stories,
From the beginning.
So, is "love" that stranger who suddenly became
Imprinted in my heart beat?
Is "love" that wicked writer, throwing red ink
At the pages of my life?
Is "love" loving you to the point where
I am no longer capable of differentiating
Between missing you and accepting the fact
That you will never be mine?
If loving you feels like a whirled dream,
Is "dream" a good enough description?
If calling your name,
When lying in someone else's arms,
If searching for your eyes,
In someone else's face,
If roaming the streets,
And begging the seasons,
To bring back a memory of yours,
Are a definition of "love,"
Then I am more than in love with you...
Maybe, after all, love is simply
Leaving the answer space a blank line,
Filled with the unspoken silence of our