Like winters underneath the quilts
legs stretched and thoughts too,
with the vanilla smell of the newly washed covers and home.
Morning sun through your windows
drenching the face,
coffee and the newspaper
to watch through the balcony.
And to walk the greens in the evenings
dead yellow and brown
with strange unexplained smell
and stranger sounds resonating somewhere far
of what you shall never know.
Now only those leaves seem alive.
But winters go, you leave home.
The poem that you wrote
with each words written and rewritten
and then read aloud
to make it sound perfect
not to let anybody else see you in them
to hide yourself
in all those myriad personalities
you weave for yourself and you shall be.
Like the words that once filled life
names that were not true and yet were
like people who gave it to you
saccharined and all
But those words
ran to be heard by someone
you would never know and still envy.
felt but forgotten
seen and touched
with lingered smiles
concatenating truth and a lot of fiction
that you think of years down the line
but dreams of just that night
And it shall walk away too,
like the tiny fragments of moments
that zip pass
what thread you tie
to pull them back
to stick to
to grow into you
it shall .
Life flows, does it not.
Love is just a word afterall.