His Love; A poem. For him. Not us.

The Kiss by Gustave Klimt (1908)

So I write poems sometimes when I am sad, happy, thoughtful or inspired. 

I wrote this poem for someone whom I once knew. Or perhaps loved.

But as we know, all stories of love do not have to be love stories, right? 

His love.

His love is like the streaks of golden rays

That filter though the leaves

On quiet summer days.

There and not there yet

A myriad picture of sunshine and shadows.

His love is like the cool gust of wind

That blows through your hair

In the scorching month of June.

Sudden, cold and yet comforting               

A fleeting moment of heaven gone in an instant.

His love is like first drops of rain

On barren, broken land.

Appeasing the thirst and springing hope

That a flower too can bloom

On abandoned territories.

His love is like the calm water

Tranquil on surface but that run deep.

Filled with chaos and turmoil.

The kind of madness that you need

To maintain your sanity.
His love.

His love.

A paradox of longing and loneliness.

A poignant painting

Coloured with his goodbyes and tears.

His smiles and my awkward fears.

His love.

A poem of darkness and light.

Of morning sunshine and starry night.

His love.

Everything I want

A blue lace and a white dress.

Rough words and soft caress,

A song of romance rooted in hopelessness.

His love.

A lesson in heartbreak

But a masterpiece none the less!!