Home.

You’re home to me,
but I am a wanderer
and I find utmost pleasure
in fluttering around like a butterfly,
never pausing
for more than the few moments required
to soak in my surroundings
before soaring away, again.
I am a wanderer
and I find utmost pleasure
in walking through unfamiliar territory,
unearthing their treasures
while failing to understand the native tongues,
inhaling the air
so foreign to my lungs.

You’re home to me,
but sometimes, you can’t be the home I need.
Sometimes, I need a wooden lodge
with embroidered rugs
and oil paintings,
a brick fireplace,
and dim lights that flood it
with the warmth I require
after a long day of being kissed
by the cold lips of the icy wind
as I rush down slopes
of soft, silver snow.
Sometimes, when I’m sleeping
under the stars,
and the moon serves as my night-lamp,
the chirping crickets my music,
and the trees my only company,
I only need a hammock
to rock myself to sleep
in tune with the waves
that gently caress the shore.
Sometimes, when my body aches
and my soul is exhausted,
I need a soft bed and a blanket,
surrounded with white walls
as blank as my mind
and carved lanterns
that decorate them with shadows.

You’re home to me,
and while I may occasionally require repose
away from you,
you must understand
that it is not because you are any less comforting,
but because I need to roam,
I need to go away
in order to return
and I would never take you for granted
but the knowledge
that you will be waiting
with the same familiar fragrance
of scented candles
and the same song
of the birds outside my window,
is what gives me the courage
to wander a little farther each time I go.

You’re home to me,
but you can’t always be homely.

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Metaphors.

I never wrote about love.
Instead, I wrote about a dahlia
whose silent swaying
in the cold winter breeze
was the cue to my waltz.
I wrote about a conversation
with whispered words drizzling
like soft raindrops on a hot day, comforting me
with their hushed pitter patter.
I wrote about a stream
that flows on
at a calm, steady pace,
carrying me along with it,
engulfed in its safe embrace.
I wrote about a bird
whose song still rings in my ears,
etched into my heart,
no matter how many miles
we may be apart.

I never wrote about love,
I wrote about loveliness instead.
I never wrote to you or about you, but
I wrote you into everything I said.

Dahlia.

You were a deep, dark Dahlia
and I couldn’t help being drawn to you,
even though my favourite flowers
are usually roses or carnations,
sometimes daisies and sunflowers, too;
but there was something about you
that no roses, carnations,
daisies or sunflowers had
and I don’t quite know what it was,
however, I do know that it made me nervous.
I wanted to pluck you,
I’m surprised I didn’t extend my fingers and do so,
I wanted to pluck you
and keep you for myself
but I knew I should not
because I didn’t have a vase befitting you,
and if I did, you would wither
and all I could do then
would be to bury you in my diary
filled with roses, carnations,
daisies and sunflowers ;
so, I gazed at you while I could,
all the while preparing myself
for the impending goodbyes
I’d have to say when I had to walk on
and I thought
I would eventually forget you,
I thought your fragrance
would leave my senses
and I thought I would stop waltzing
in time with your gentle swaying;
but the truth is that I cannot.
No, how could i forget you when
your smell still lingers as though
I have my face buried into your chest
and I still waltz alone
to the breeze you swayed to?
You were a deep, dark Dahlia
and I wish I had plucked you.

Binary.

You are always a mere arrangement of ones and zeros away
and that is both comforting and frustrating
because it is not enough
that it shall only take me a few moments to reach out to you,
no, I need to reach out and touch you,
feel your warmth under my skin
and listen to your voice-
clear and undisturbed by static-
when we have whispered conversations
that last long past midnight;
I need to have my face lit up
by the warm glow of the sun-
while we watch it dip into the ocean for a swim-
and kissed by your soft lips,
not by the glow of a phone-screen.
I need to grasp your arm while we walk around at night together,
not have my fingers curled around my phone
in order to feel your presence.
I need you here in flesh and bones,
not in a combination of ones and zeros.

You are always a mere arrangement of ones and zeros away
and that is both comforting and frustrating
for it baffles me that everything I wish to make you hear
is nothing but mere digits
and that every emotion
I have ever wished to express to you is,
in essence, the same;
all the times I’ve had tears rolling down my cheeks
and all the times my cheeks have hurt from laughing,
and all the times I’ve put them into words
to be sent to you,
they have been nothing but a binary;
and maybe, that is all it is,
maybe, you and I are only ones and zeros,
and when put together correctly,
we articulate what would otherwise go unsaid,
for nobody else could be a better one to my zero.

You are always a mere arrangement of ones and zeros away
but no amount of ones and zeros
could ever fathom how much I wish you could be here.

Shall We Dance?

Will you dance with me?
I shall teach you how.

We can use our racing pulses for music.

First, you wrap your arm around my waist
and hold me close,
firmly enough to tell me
that you do not intend to let me go,
but tenderly enough
to allow me to leave,
should I choose to.
In your other hand,
you hold mine,
and use it to signal your choice of course
by a gentle tug
meant to only indicate where you wish to go;
be soft and trust that I shall accompany you
wherever you may lead me
without being coerced into doing so.
When we move in unison,
my eyes shall never wander from yours,
and as I step backwards
with only you to guide me,
remember that I am blind
to the obstacles that lay in my path-
for you are my only focus-
and I depend on you
to meander me through them
with elegance and grace.
As we twirl around,
realise that while I ask you to hold me,
and move with me,
I shall never expect you
to support the entirety of my weight.
When our song ends
and we stop to pause and catch our breaths,
smile, and ask me to save the last dance for you.

Will you dance with me?
I shall teach you how.

You.

If time were not measured by seconds but by heartbeats,
I would have known you for a lifetime,
for you make my heart burst
with overwhelming joy,
and make contentment pulse through my every vein,
while the breeze caresses my hair with soft kisses
and you elegantly articulate my thoughts
in a voice far more melodious than my own.

If happiness were not an emotion, but a human
with a soul and spirit-
it would have your smiling face and warm eyes
which pierce through my monachopsis
and shatter it with pure love,
while you hold me in a tender embrace
and gently sway to the music,
whose words we know not
but have made our own.

If you were to be translated,
you would be poetry.