I think its sunset, I sense he is around…
I wait like I constantly do,
Under the thriving brown.
He writes poetries and sometimes he narrates them to me,
I just nod or smile in approval,
I am not even sure he ever perceives…
I know so much about him, and that he doesn’t know,
I know who crushed his heart,
The girl he planned to propose.
He always sits on a bench tarnished with age,
Sometimes he sits on the grass and
Plays with its blades.
I wonder if he knows, that I exist too,
I have always loved him,
Maybe not in form, but in a different hue…
He is withdrawn, and hardly stable.
There is much pain in his prose,
Makes him distant and unapproachable…
On some days I have wanted to come out of hiding,
To tell him, how good he is, but I can’t…
My soul will follow him through but my being shan’t!
I was bounded by the soil, when they buried me deep.
For years I was undisturbed,
Then one day he woke me up, from the profound sleep.
He doesn’t know yet, that he sits on a grave,
I don’t intend to scare him, I feel he is brave,
I know he won’t fancy a carcass with no name,
But this deceased heart will still admire him,
With absolutely no aim!