In The Meantime

In the meanwhile

I could write you a poem 

Or

I could write you

As though you were a scent 

Of soft violet orchids 

That wafted to me on a dewy morning 

And whispered in fragrances 

That can never be known, only felt

Like most things about you 

Usually, summer afternoons are spelt by 

The smell of you

Next to me

Closer and closer still.

What are we thinking of? 

What would it take 

To take this forward? 

It doesn't matter: for now,

Your eyes are a slice of the sun

And I take in light one ray at a time, afraid

That too much will blind me.

Sometimes,

It does. 

Afternoons that are happy preludes 

To evenings with you 

That I picture as being two

Abstract paintings 

On a quaint cafe wall, holding conversations 

In secret, tripping on our own words 

And picking ourselves up with

The imperfections of each stroke. 

Some colours happen by chance, like you and me. 

Nights 

Are better. 

Darkness is 

Always better. 

You curled up next to me inside a room where the only recognisable sounds 

Are raindrops and your breath.

The pace of our breathing quickens in accordance with the skies 

As you hold my face in your delicate hands 

And kiss me senseless, 

As if you needed rescuing and i was your saviour. 

We both need rescuing.

I open the window to let the rain in and kiss the drops that line your neck.

There is a symphony that is being woven. 

Soon, it is just you and me

And the rest of the universe 

Becomes a passenger in the backseat 

As I hold you closer

And you whisper to me:

This is as close as we can get, 

And I wish we could be closer still

As an afterthought 

I hope that every poem I write

For you, on you, because of you 

Or otherwise 

Makes you want to hold me closer

And kiss me a little longer 

Because 

This is all I have

This is all I am.