This is crazy, unwinding after the day's topsy turvy journey, basking the porch with tea and poetry, letting loose in contemplation of life's metaphors and hyperboles only to find myself swamped with thoughts about you. It’s like being devoured by a whirlpool, riding a loop that I can never get past of despite my strife to get a grasp of the outside. You are all over me every time I wrestle with the poetic side of my complexity.
If only I could scrape your memory out of my entirety, only then wouldn’t I bleed the moment my pen romances a paper, only then wouldn’t I melt the moment my paintbrush dances on a canvass. You are the clearest picture in my thoughts, the most enduring memory in my subconscious. The contours of your pleasant face, the glimmer of your porcelain skin, the lather of your long satin hair… I can almost smell the scent of your soul coming towards me as you ignite my senses, inflaming the dying ember inside my frozen dream. You are the life ‘neath my metaphors, the mystery that I call in all my apostrophes, the reality that only comes true when I polish my hyperboles. Yes, you are the passion that gels sense into my existence, the wonder that lies in the cryptic twists of my poetries, but then what do you care about all this? I am just a dust in the confines of your world.
Sometimes, I’d rather be drowned with papers trying to beat deadlines if only to break free from the struggles in my mind, the torture in my heart as you invade my solitary intervals; but the second I close my weary eyes to savor my milky tea, vision of you crawls on me like the sweetest temptation blocking the lucid view of reality.
I am just a worn ship amidst the ocean of your fantasy, sailing through the changing hues of horizon... sinking, not by the tall waves nor by the storm, but by the stillness you exude despite my persistent stir.
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