If I can write all my poems about uh

 _*If I can write all my poems about uh, would I?,*_

 

Fatal in your memories,

The whispers under my  holy sheets.

Shouts deeps, body beats, 

in the past Christmas season.

I met you, 

behind the Christmas tree.

The mistletoe was missing,

Before the sun goes and the moon glows.

When then, I sat around my desk,

My diary incepted fluctuating ,

All my words of wits and wonder,

Towards you, around you, for you.

Now I rephrase the question,

Why I haven't met you before?

The days, I haven't met you,

Was the standing sattire of affection gone, out of my door.

Castles built,

crusades burnt.

cases bridged,

And clauses broken but  relapsed .

Now my No's are turning out to Nod,

And my yes are turning out to say why?so

My bewilderment turning out to become beware ,

And my condemnation turning out of contemporary contempt.

If I could not write poems,

The next best day ,

I woke up and I felt about you,

Or if I wouldn't feel about you the same, another day....

The demons stated the next day,

That the demons rided all over my face.

If my demons speculated  creeping me out in the night mares,

How would my your wonder ,work within me?

Specialties in ships,

Like your lips on my body dips.

Fragile glimpses of grey heart,

Marking me yours ,in all flips.

Sapphire hidden in my soul,

Salutation wrapped around your grandose prose.

World of Warcraft Blizzard ,

featuring the wonders of witches, 

the love drops from mighty top.

When we don't share the same page ,

Of the half read book.

I read your eyes,

I read you eyes,

The last love of summer- winter happy good byes.

Can I call you back ,

When we say - it have

all ended?

Can I call you mine,

Still back after you are far bygone, in time.

Can I write all' my poems about uh?

Can I beat my mind and heart of your self?

Can I sit there, in your heart,

And in your most cherished memories, for once and for all?

Or can we both travel back to our stories ,

And narrate it in the way both want?

How we both were so badly affected by this naive -nostalgia bond,

Two possessive persons recognised to Dwell and sink, in a knot.

Kisses on forehead, straight stares on bare backs.

Warm or weak ?

Cuddles underneath the blanket or blank sheets?

Late night talks and walks,

Filled with false truths or white lies,

The time had flied.

But, can I narrate,

 all' my favourite words to my ever most dearest and darkest person?

Who dreaded me ,

Departing in December, a devil of my November.

Bondages are broken down,

Like the shoes ties left me into the time to appraise.

But can I whistle and call you back?

And text uh around late nights?

Overpowered by your thoughts,

The feels and feeling,

The bond and bondages,

The care and cursing.

You packed for me ,

So I can dedicate - nothing so good and glad to you.

But still if I would write all my poems,my letters and all my creative creations to uh,

I am more than sure enough,

That You would take it for granted,

But he won't! But who is he?

Is he real?

Or is he my own creation?

Is he a dream?

Or a delicious delusion?

Someone like uh,

Befooling me in my bedroom.

Or someone who would become like uh,

Leaving me in love ?

Even if I am not  pleased by my love life,

My diary would treasure my addressed adages for ages.

Preserving the haves , hurt, and hurricanes of human healing, with no mark  when love dies.

Like even if I can write all my poems about uh,

I would chose not to,

I would chose not to,

You are bygone in the baggage of my bin.

A lady like me,

Maybe perplexed in the trials of what if,even if, ever if,

But the lady knows , that she  got the luck,

That can turn infinite holds of Haggard feats in  her hands to fuck.

So December had gone,

And January has came.

The windows of winter brought her some brown brightness,

Another came, who is treating her well.

But who knows if,maybe, might,

The month changes,

The seasons expels,

And years yields,

He stays to behold her field or flies?

But as I am learning, re learning, and un learning,

I would be surely attached to him , even,

And ask the same query- if I can knot all my linguistic love around him?

But then I would inhibit my pen to portray his character,

Or may be let it flow,

It's a spontaneous glimse.

But , even if,

If I can write all my poems about uh,

I would chose writing about him ,

Laying my head on my pillow,

His finger traces on my skin made up of   silhouette in winter-willow.

Leeza