My latest poem in Spark is for all the closet romantics out there. Read on.
Who Writes Things Like These?
The stars, the moon, the sun
They fade in the face of your glory,
The ripples on the grandest lake
Aren’t a patch on the dimples on your face.’
They fade in the face of your glory,
The ripples on the grandest lake
Aren’t a patch on the dimples on your face.’
‘Who writes things like these?’
He thought to himself.
He thought to himself.
‘Those eyes, those limpid pools
Those melting pots of honey,
Those purveyors of great words
Without ever making a sound.’
Those melting pots of honey,
Those purveyors of great words
Without ever making a sound.’
‘Who expresses their love like this?’
He shook his head as he read.
He shook his head as he read.
‘There is none but you
I am nothing without you,
I’d leave this world in an instant
It’d be living hell without you.’
I am nothing without you,
I’d leave this world in an instant
It’d be living hell without you.’
‘Oh, these lovelorn people,’
He smiled as he folded the paper.
He smiled as he folded the paper.
The poem had come his way,
Left behind on a seat of a bus.
Did the giver forget it?
Or did the recipient leave it behind?
Left behind on a seat of a bus.
Did the giver forget it?
Or did the recipient leave it behind?
This wasn’t how he expressed love—
He, of the repressed silences,
And wordless gestures,
Of the meaningful touches
And quiet support.
He, of the repressed silences,
And wordless gestures,
Of the meaningful touches
And quiet support.
He went home to that quiet wife of his
Who matched his silences with hers.
And on they went to the end of day—
Food consumed, clothes changed
And his gentle snores beginning
To fill their small bedroom.
Who matched his silences with hers.
And on they went to the end of day—
Food consumed, clothes changed
And his gentle snores beginning
To fill their small bedroom.
She picked up a book for her daily read
And found a new bookmark in it—
A paper, yellowed slightly and folded gently,
Placed there furtively by that sleeping man
Knowing well she’d discover it.
And found a new bookmark in it—
A paper, yellowed slightly and folded gently,
Placed there furtively by that sleeping man
Knowing well she’d discover it.
She smiled as she read the words—
Ones that he would’ve never written
Ones that he would’ve never said aloud:
‘The stars, the moon, the sun…’
Ones that he would’ve never written
Ones that he would’ve never said aloud:
‘The stars, the moon, the sun…’
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