As I sit here with no words, I want to revert the language. Maybe it supplies me with new words, some new days. Such a cocoon I have put myself into that languages seem too small a stack of words, that I relegate languages to stacks of words.
The present is so complete as if there were never any voids. These eyes, they blink as if they are burning distances. When you whisper my name in these silent lips, I see the blue ocean going mum as if it wants to wet our silence. I anticipate your touch. There, the evenings bring me your breeze. I lie down on my back, you sit beside me, we write about some nights in our notebook. The garden is full of flowers today.
What is life to me if not you.
What else do I write if not about a moment when I'm close to you. If this is not true, then what is.
The present is so complete as if there were never any voids. These eyes, they blink as if they are burning distances. When you whisper my name in these silent lips, I see the blue ocean going mum as if it wants to wet our silence. I anticipate your touch. There, the evenings bring me your breeze. I lie down on my back, you sit beside me, we write about some nights in our notebook. The garden is full of flowers today.
What is life to me if not you.
What else do I write if not about a moment when I'm close to you. If this is not true, then what is.
1 comment:
The 'feel' is true, nothing else is, for now.
Let it linger for a while :)
Cheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
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