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Poem
Not a blemish on your skin,
Not a mark,
Nor even a scratch,
Yet you tempt me,
Resent me,
Prevent me from Playing with my mind,
And agonizing my thoughts,

You ask me to draw,
To write,
To speak out my ideas,
To not be so disinclined to shoot.

My fair lady,
Our friendship is tough,
It is not as simple as love.
But, When we embrace
I forget
And My worries disappear
My thoughts begin to flow.
My heart begins to hear.
Then,

Then there is so much to tell you,
So many tales on my tongue,
So many memories on the run.

So My fair lady,
Why do You say you need more space?
Why do You ask me to find another?
And to continue our conversation with her.
Why do you say that you have had enough?
My fair lady,
Do you think that I bluff?

Look now,
In your presence I wonder
What I can possibly say or do.

I stare at you,
Quietly,
Admiring,
Appreciating,
Devouring,
Ruminating,
And yet silence is not your desire.
No,
Not tonight.

Tonight, You wish for words,
It is evident in your disguised beauty,
It is evident in your pale skin,
It is evident in how you shiver impatiently,
Fluttering as the wind blows,
Shining as the moonlight catches you.

You take a seat on the wooden table outside,
In the balcony,
In the icy air,
And wait for me to accompany you.

So My fair lady,
If that is what you want, 
If that is what you need,
Then let me find myself 
A pencil,
Or maybe a typewriter,

Let me find myself something
With which I may
tattoo your skin
With the prayers I pray.

Let me find myself something
With which I may
Engrave your side
With letters of Black, White and Grey.

Unless, I finally discard you, 
Crumpled,
Wrinkled, 
Used, 
And yet of no use,
No longer plain,
But feigned,
Disdained
Inane.

Is that your fate?
Is that your fate
Or is it too late?

After all this thought,
After all this time
Will you simply be
A part of the heap
Into which nights have seeped?
Will you simply be
Chucked away?
Just like she was,
A writer's romance of yesterday?
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