There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.
~ Sanober Khan
If I’m not around I hope you’ll remember me and together we will hold on to our favorite song.
Breezy daysdeserve the unionof two old friends.
our feet are grape-squashed in memoriesour skins are still flushedfrom the touch of summer’s lips.
I find it incredibly amazing how at every sunset, the sky is a different shade. No cloud is ever in the same place. Each day is a new masterpiece. A new wonder. A new memory.
The magic fades too fastthe scent of summer never lasts the nights turn hollow and vast but nothing remains...nothing lasts.
the nights would be orphaned without the sound of crickets chirping.
Tea is just an excuse.i am drinking this sunset, this evening.and you.
Fall in lovewith the energyof the morningstrace your fingers along the lullof the afternoonstake the spirit of the eveningsin your armskiss it deeply and thenmake loveto the tranquilityof the nights.
your gazeacrossmy cheeksturned theminto strawberry fields.
Some days I don't know what is greater.My wisdom, or my stupidity.
Poetry has saved me on occasions when people couldn't.
Sometimes the rainfallsjust for you and meto be the violinplaying in the backgroundof our loneliness's song.
What's a rainy daywithout some deliciouscoffee-flavoured loneliness?
i have known yousince the beginningof timethe one i have loved alwaysin spirit.only just discoveredin person.
When admiring other people's gardens, don't forget to tend to your own flowers.
I want to have a romance so grand,it would have made Shakespeare fumble for words.
I was coming together...limb by limb, after being brokenfor an infinity.
The most beautiful, amazing and inevitable fact about life- Everything has a natural healing process.
It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.
This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.
How....will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.
to be a poet meansto live with a permanent wound forever susceptibleto either the shade of the skyor someone's eyes.
may this poetrybe the homeyou will someday come back to.
my poetry is merely a body.you are the soul in my words.
..i spill intothe kind of silenceonly Khalil Gibran would understand.
A rain like melting pillows…a rain so beautifulI could neverhave let go ofif not certainthat someday...it would find its wayinto my poem.
You are the ocean to my eyes.
let my heart always belike it is...this very momentready to explode...with lovea violent rainstorm...with no streamno ocean vast enoughto flow into.
you are here.the moontides are here.and that’s all that matters.
tread carefullyinto my life, my dear.the currents are strong.you will get lostin this warm oceanof my skin.
If my life were a fragrance, it would smell like the sea.
for those memories are nowjust like these little kittensI hold in my handsthose can be kissedand treasuredbut not held too tightly.
you wereand always will bethat first ever touchto have fertilizedthe groundbeneath my life’s treesthat first ever roseto have fragrancedthe rest of my memories.
when I finally begin to driftinto sleepyour memory is the...firstand the moonlightthe last, to kiss my face.
you areas fleetingly beautifulas a mother’s tearsand a father’s pranksa brother’s bachelorhoodand a best friend’s bad mooda bride’s glittering jittersand a handsome stranger’s smile.
she's gotoceanstucked awayin her hairpoems swimunder her skin.
the mostbeautiful tideis the sweepof your heartagainst mine.
violent storms. and beautiful smiles. both have electricity. both are equally destructive in nature.
i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.
