ramblings-of-a-moonchild

And the sweet smelling flowers.

I love the way the rain dances on the lake

And the song of the wind.

I love the tenderness of a daffodil

And the depth of the vast blue sea.

I love the way the mountains stand guard

And the calm reassurance of the flowing river.

I love the little frog under the big shroom

And the cute little dance of a squirrel.

I love the slowness of the setting sun

And the gentleness of the moon's light.

I think I am falling in love with this life

And it's warm embrace.

Ohh to be surrounded by all this beauty.

I am suffocating in all this slowness

I am tired of acting like I enjoy the day

I can't anymore

I need adventures and uneaseness

I need to be under a tree unpacking a travel bag

searching for that quick bite before I resume

I need to be under the stars and counting the big ones

I can't sit at a window and look at the passing cars

I can't sit around and dance to another melody

I need to be out in the wilderness and battling for breath

I need to know that I am alive and here

And not just another painting on the wall

I miss everything about my home. Now that I've left, all I want is to go back.

Crawl into my bed and fall asleep to the sounds of the sea.

The sea and its crashing waves, a lullaby that has sneaked into my life without me even realizing.

I cannot sleep in the silence of this new city.

I miss the waves.

I don't remember the exact day I fell in love.

But when you get late, I worry.

My brain tells me it's fine,

that you're probably stuck in traffic.

But my heart don't seem to understand.

It doesn't let me breathe.

My heart does not know the reasons or distances.

It only knows your absence.

And when mine doesn't find your heart to beat alongside,

No space where my soul can rest and do a little stretch.

Years of existence has piled upon me and now there's hardly any room....for myself.

Days have turned to weeks and weeks to months.

The sparkle of life has quietened down and all that's left is a stubborn heart shaped hollow.

Once filled to the brim with hopes and dreams, now it lays stuck in the sand and long forgotten.

A fossil from the days when the sun used to be kind and the wind was fresh. When I used to be me.

You can't run away from your mind.

From how you look and who you are.

But like the sky, you will never be blue all the time.

Like the sky, there are colours in you that are beautiful.

You have your own winters and springs,

Your own dawn and dusk.

Stars in your laugh and moonlight in your eyes.

Like the sky, you're the comfort to someone somewhere.

This is the moment you have to realise, being you is fine.

Do I wish for someone to hold me oh so softly, afraid that they'll hurt me if the grip is even a little tight?

Do I wish for someone to think of how it would feel to kiss me, to be kissed by me?

Do I wish for someone to think of me when they see purple sunsets and orange dawns?

Do I wish for someone to tell me that they've been thinking about me the whole day?

Do I wish for someone sing to me and cuddle me to sleep?

Do I wish for someone who can't stop thinking about a beautiful future where we belong together?

Yes.

I wish that.

All of it.

So no matter how many times you push me away, I'll stay.

Come back with more softness and gentle tones.

Listen to the songs of each star that you hold in your eyes.

Blowing a cool breeze when the fire inside them is too hot.

You will never lose me, not now, not in a million years.

For where there are stars and stories,

There'll always be me, soft breaths and touches of love.

Until the universe collapses on itself,

And suddenly all your poems are about them.

I am tired of writing about you.

But I can't seem to write about anything else.

I can't make you perfect, because you're not.

Yet all the lines I have ever written are full of love.

For you, I guess.

Because ever since we met,

my heart has always spoken your name.

In whispers, and then as songs.

Now in paintings and poems,

your existence sprawls across the walls of my house.

I only realised that it was love,

when pastel yellows became too beautiful to ignore.

Stupid thing love,

making me wait and hope,

when all this time you never were here.

I feel like I am inside a snow globe,

enchanted to stay a happy sight forever.

But deep within the walls of my heart and soul,

the winter of your absence has turned an ugly grey.

The snow no longer pure and white,

but tinted with the fading colours of my heartbreak,

All dance in the late afternoon sunlight.

Like the final touch to the awaited painting,

They shimmer beneath my eyes.

In that moment it feels like time never passed,

Like there's a forever in between my lips and the teacup.

But like an ever flowing river,

the memories come and go,

one by one.

A sad reminder that time never promises.

And all that you feel will last a lifetime,

will be gone in the blink of an eye.

And now I sit on the floor,

surrounded by the rare November warmth.

But I miss yours.

I miss your hand and the soft touches it leaves behind.

And all I now have are the ghosts of your palm,

and the coldness of the paintings that they left behind.

An ache deeper than any ocean runs through me,

and it sadly whispers promises of a forever.

I know they won't be broken this time.

looking out at the setting sun.

Fragile is how your voice sound,

when you hum the songs of your dreams.

Fragile is how your eyes look,

when you see a star and wish upon it.

Fragile is you,

sometimes in the morning,

always at night.

But everytime you smile,

fragile becomes my heart.

Everytime you cry,

fragile are my bones.

Fragile has long since stopped being a word to me.

Like me, like the way I sometimes feel.

It has its seasons and its draughts.

Somedays, it flows easily.

Too easily.

And those days scare me a little.

Somedays I have to ground myself in it,

be cautious and aware of each stroke.

Those days are the most peaceful.

But yet somedays feel like a forever,

between me and my palette.

I may not be an artist yet.

But there's art in me.

And I see it all around me.

It does not matter,

thhat I can't put a label on the way the brush feels in my hands.

Artist or not, I have a home in colors.

A place to lose myself, and sometimes to discover myself.

Infinte possibilities at the end of my brush,

sprawled like lightning strikes on my dirty desk.

The only thing I know are the songs in my head,

when I close my eyes and think of the next color.

It becomes a little easier to breathe,

when I am surrounded by the smell of paints.

Forever grounded to the carefree version of me,

with the added weight of a tube of color.

Everything falls into place,

the world stays still in a haze.

Everytime I hold a brush and paint,

somewhere in me is born a little girl.

And there was never a day when I didn't wish I could see your smile with the morning sunrays kissing your face.

I've been in love with you for so long now, that I count my days in the ways you exist here in this space.

Love was never a choice. It was the only option.

We're long gone.

Forever has an end.

And time is no more.

Just a small speck of sky.

A large drop of ocean.

Secrets ageless with history.

Promises that speak of betrayal.

Old paintings hung, forgotten.

Letters cramped under the bed.

A flower that wilts on the sill.

A song that died on the lips.

Fading colours behind the mirror.

Longings in the wind, whispered in desperation.

It's an end, like all good things must face.

Atleast we tried.

But what a tragic attempt that was.

For eternities to come,

they'll talk about the lovers

who almost had it.

But almost is never enough.

And so they'll say,

to be young and in love is a beautiful thing.

And we'll watch,