The days we don't talk

The days we don`t talk

 

There are days that when due to umpteen or no reasons or rebels , we don`t talk , or say a word, but still we communicate through our missing stars in the sky. When you sit on your desk and dream about me, when I write another blog and live through you, when I close my eyes and sleep in your dreams, when you wake up with your half finished lecture and glimse through my soul. Who do you we even become? The part of each other, even without being really with each other or we disguise ourselves in the ruins and run ways of times . when we wait for a day or two to pass through us to reminisce , how we both sound, when you don`t even speak but I hear your voice in my head and I don`t even laugh but you hear my laughters near your bed , and walls. Do you become the unforgotten-incomplete poem of my diary that I always attempt to write , but miserably fail? What do I become for you , a painting to look forever that still stays in your eyes and in your vices.

I fail , miserably at times to be there with you, for you is something for what I grieve. We live apart in  different worlds and distinctive loves. Its 1;12 . 3-10-23 , when I am writing this, it would still take 5-3-23 for you  to read this. But do the days make us really far and a failure when we can`t coordinate , or it  make us resilient and real? But do we want to be this real or do we want to live in a mirage of each other references  .  I don`t really get what you really do, you don`t know why intellectual pursuits excite me , but does that fade us? Or does that make us envision our tales in classics ? 

Does it make  us real  through  this time and distance ?

 does it speed us or slow us in scie nes of human mind?

 What is our real formula?

Does it make us evade?

or does it take us through our fate?

Still my heart remains in the garden where your flowers bloom and my gut stays in the voices of your room . home is where you are , even with frozen windows and dusted doors .As I write this  sitting , in the corner of my writing desk, I close my eyes and cherish what I had with you and imagine what we could have , together or even apart, as  being far is not as fatal as it seems, time falls and fly , like our miserable nights. The cuts we have  , the cures come along the ways too  . The seasons just past , as years surpass. It seems troublesome at start, but at the very end , it really end .The waits are just the moments we cherish and the lives we live is better than our pasts. maybe its not final or vital to know, right now , what would happen ?  but the days we don`t talk are also the days , I am  grateful for .so I can sleep with the hope to talk to you the very next day.

 

Yours

 

l