There is a fire inside my dragon dungeons
and water sprinklers hushing it down.
I sleep on the edge of the bed at nights and the rest of the bed remains uncreased,
maybe I imagine myself to be a lone wolf too much but that does not make me any less lonely.
I try not to wake the darkness up while flipping my pillow to the colder side.
There are certain names stained in my songs
and scarlet forget-me-nots adorning them.
I repeat them under the silent breaths over and over and over again when I listen to the music
or the noise of traffic or the sound of the coffee maker when my brother sneaks into the kitchen
to prepare his midnight beverage, a common ritual of his.
There is a boy who smells like rain-soaked grass
and his fingers are soft like gentle wind whispering through my hair.
I try to find all of his laughter in my older poems to see if it was meant to be but I always end up
looking at the North star and wonder if someone from another dimension is writing our story.
I sometimes leave anonymous notes on leaves blowing away with the wind in the hope that they might seek his window out and knock on it.
There is a sea-shell sitting innocently in my drawer
size of my fingernail with the hues of the whole evening sky on it.
I sometimes put it to my ears and listen to ocean waves through it and it whispers back sweet nothings
and at times there’s music as well and one could lose themselves in an infinite dance in the music of the ocean waves.
I dreamt of him when I was near the ocean and I dream of the ocean when I am with him.
There is a poem inside my mind waiting to be born
and words that I gulped down along with the sunlight.
I swear there are more scriptures in a human heart than there are on paper and there is more ink running through my human veins than there is in those worldly pens.
I sometimes scribble my heart on a paper, I sometimes pour myself on the page.
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