The Silence of My Voice

My fluttering pages knew, for each time, You walked through a rue singing its song, for, Each time, you dived into afflictions, Bloating your palate, with, Walking the grievous, yet ravishing the sublime, You inked me with all the times, you, Crystallised yourself with the silhouette of others, Just how a barista demands for the milk, To dance its way into the coffee's life, You inked me with all the times, you, Morphed beautifully when autumns touched you, And flushed everyone in all the tinges that shaped you, You inked me with all the times, you, You were a rain-laden, lone, dark cloud, Efflorescing a flower in me, each time you poured, I came to you with folded edges, and bleeding covers, With blankness in pages, you coloured me up, With the simple, and the difficult, With the together, and the alone, With the Van Gogh, and the Hemingway, With the stories, and the slags, all the same, I came to you with haemorrhaging lines, And you wrote to me, wrote in

Drib by drib, all the water ambitiously flowed, Over its head to climactically reach where the world began, Each time the water surges over it, only the rock knew, What seemed like pelting to the world, Were a thankful million different kisses and marks, The Creek left over each minute, To keep the pebbles from echoing its name, And halting its journey, Seldom do people realise the lull sung, Of the gushing water, Is the Creek's love bleeding out on its land, For it knows it's soon to depart to a world untouched, Even better when it rains, for there's, Nothing better than being loved your lover, and, Being haunted by them at the same time, With the constant love, the constant contact, It felt like the Creek's touch yet time and again, Was just another echo of how much it adored the gravel, That helped him with such grace at, Every turn, the mountains were malevolent of their semblance, And while the world saw the fervour of the