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“A lover asked his beloved,
Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied, I have died to myself and I live for you.
I've disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I've forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I've become a scholar.
I've lost all my strength, but from your power I am able.
I love myself...I love you.
I love you...I love myself.”  Rumi.

When you cry,
I wish I was those tears,
rolling down your cheeks,
dripping upon your strawberry lips.

I yearn to reflect like rainbow dust,
so you mirror like a confetti mosaic.
But in the duration of distance,
I walk barefoot upon a path of
dead roses, whose thorns are
covered in crimson drops.

In between the phases of pearls
and eternal embers in our sky,
I cannot sleep when you remain awake.
Afraid the moon will steal our dreams.

Time is an impatient muse,
but my adoration is timeless.
If only we could pause
and move in slow motion.

With the humility of Rumi.
My words are a colourless chore,
my mind a moth-eaten blank canvas,
but when you appear before me -
I'm a poetic waterfall of ivory ink.

In periwinkle petal phases 
of personification, place my 
choral carnation blossoms
in chronological chapters -
inside the personal memoirs 
of your porcelain soul.

We are fragile figments,
but our serenade is not a fable,
so I keep writing orphic poems,
portraying your innocence and honesty
through an opulent sonnet,
reflecting your moonlight majesty.
Revealing desires of an enkindled heart.
If prose is too simple,
I'll create you a mausoleum of metaphors,
so when silence suppresses my speech,
my arrows of alliteration 
will protect you until your last verse.

Before my last breath,
I may not create a perfect masterpiece.
So I wonder if my words will be worthy
or will you forget me
like the others who wrote before me?

In your analogies of abandonment, 
I am a pristine scarf in your suitcase.
When I surrender to time,
will you wrap me around your skin,
until the end?
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