My heart is impatient for your love. It knows that the answer resides in the ebbing of the tides.
My eye cast longing hypnotic gazes and paints turquoise filter on the vista.
Thinking of you, heartaches haunt my brain.
I transpose nature unto you, those places were my souls was at peace (to the shores, at dawn, the sun rising, the calmness and tranquillity, me intoxicated on the elixir of the ocean spray).
Know not, if I am blind in your presence?
I seek to recall the scent of your skin.
For, I drown in the sensual stimuli of you, a feast to my eyes, sinuses and fingertips.
Be it, the bricolage I create — as painters imagine, the internal and external coalesce.
Do I really see you? Or are you an image imagined, hence, I guess, the longing to know you. For, in knowing you I find myself.
I have to express my thoughts. Be it a distraction that tempts me from the tasks at hand.
The past recalled lessons learnt: dreams have to be nurtured and sown before fields of flower blooms, and butterflies leave hearts asunder.
In time, the hue of the light changes. Then, we have to see with new eyes, new colours and tapestries to imagine.
In this light, I believe that my desires for you will never fade.
I tell myself, words of assurance, that we have to grow to understand.
So often, one projects the ideals of the past unto the present. History is thus nebulous, — is it not?
I sense beauty in you, and this these day consumes my every thought.
I marvel at your smile, seeing a purity in the polish of your teeth;
Your jawbone, a sculpted work of art and your nose the prize of artists.
I want to learn, wish to know you, your worlds, the past, the present and your desires for the future. Be I, can I be a page in your book — these words, the silent whispers of my aching heart. My chest opened, the inside exposed, I feel so alive.
Why I ask myself, do I desire so much of you?
Some say that one should not question emotions, but I know that these are the voices of the past calling: the unrequited and lived desires