THE POETESS'S LOVER

On the bed of her poetic life,

Laid the poetess,

Lilies and roses on her bossom 

Now becoming my poetry,

So hear me thee.

Never had I believed 

I would imitate her ways of love,

But here I am

Singing lyrics out of melancholy 

Of each of her memory.

I gaze at her picture ,

 As surreal as those lazy summer clouds,

And at me she looks,

From her calm monolids,

Her beaming baby lips.

This is the only way,

I wake up to her now,

A piece of her

Her hairtie around my wrist,

Containing her lavender mist.

Her sound fresh in my head,

Where I still hear Her laugh

And in my minds eye

I watch her sway around,

In a silent sound

I still feel your breath 

Against my ear,

As you gently held me

Wiping my tears,

Hugging all my fears

Now that vintage typewriter

Feels hollow without 

Your presence infront of it

The painted roses on it miss,

Your fingers kiss.

I remember every word 

You bled from your veins

Where ink ran rather than blood

On the paper,

A beautiful words shaper.

Now I clutch your diary 

And weep 

Reading word by word 

This house feels blue,

And so does my heart without you.

Holding this book,

Feels like holding you ,

As we hug,

My arms around you,

Feeling loved so true.

I am neither a poet,

Nor a writer,

Just a miserable lover,

Of that poetess,

Who never wrote less.

She penned down lines for me,

Now my soul yearns for her,

Her divine narration,

The sound of her fingers

As she drafted odes.