The Night We Met
Every night, the unduly ones, A conversation starts with your phantasmal form talking mostly about complex matters on not admitting to loving you. I would not make peace with your flesh as I'm only a stale lover who meets you on a rendezvous night. We talked mostly about the past full of passion and emotions surmounting. I swear the loneliness is livable after that. I always wonder what it must feel like to be in love with a poet, enjambment of scattered sentences all-around the blank sheets with an intertwining of fingers to make a sanctuary for turning souls into poetry. I never leave your pious mind; neither did you still waiting for a night we meet again.