Space for hope always exists inside us. We may not accept it but it sits under the seconds hand of our wrist watch. It is the base upon which time softly yet unknowingly rests.
At the precise moment when the night begins and then it starts turning from yellow or gradient of colours (hope) to blue( void). l watch the sunlight furiously shatter into the calm waters .
Did you again hold my unwritten letter against your chest and weep your heart out.
Did your tears attempt to erase everything that i couldn’t, that i wasn’t able to write.
writing poetry is an illusion of temporary victory
of conquering these escaping emotions and chaining them to words but then the softness of your face appears on the pages of my mind
and i realise how I lost again
the colours of our skies maybe different but every honey coloured sunset reminds me of your smiles
i don’t know if this is a gentle or a crude reminder
of our night we use to escape together by
hearing breathes more than words .
As I try to write your name, the black words dissolve into paper creases. I then desperately hope that the ink spreads in the shape of a miracle map that leads us back to each other.
return to me !
return the colour blue to my veins…