Words, are all I have…

There is a certain
dexterity my diary holds
of frowning ironies and
gypsy butterflies.
With tragic notes like a
daily reminder from a suffering ‘Sylvia’,
and the harvest of words I reward myself with your spring beauty,
it suffocates and rejoices.

You don’t know even
half of your beauty
that resurrects the dead hearts
and resuscitates my old papers
dying below the weight of
everlasting winter flakes.
And my words don’t even know
half of the vocab to describe you
filling up the boring spaces between us
by holding the moon in a spoon.

My tongue lifts to trace
your essence in some
literal symbols
so tender to touch,
so far away like clouds
that fills up my sky
with their moving smiles
and opaque nature.
Making me wonder
if my words will ever be able
to penetrate you like
an holy attempt of sunshine.

Some days,
my diary holds
gape(s) and gasp(s)
and all sorts of drama
in Gothic style.
The other days
It produces a visual
of you as my new Lord
waiting to be worshipped.

I appear, my veil ugly
the gravity around me, uglier
knowing you love the outcasts.
I gaze at you
with fondness.
You look at me
with pitiful eyes.
But I know, I have words
And words will
take your heart away.

I would have choosen death
over sympathies, anytime
but knowing it’s you
I chose to live
And my mute book,
to scream your
appreciation in 26 letters
to pass on the stories
to our great-grandchildren
of how we met,
Because
There were only words,
words were all we had
to take our hearts away.

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