As my orbs scan your syllables, my mind halts its chores midway to speculate your verbiage. I feel your fingertips that once ran on this leaf, caressing my eyelids through time and space. We recite the same tongue yours but is, a smouldering fire. It chars, sometimes, and at other times, it illumes.
Some verses of yours stir the storm at the back of my head. My skull oscillates like a pendulum, up and down, resonating with your iambic pentameters. Sometimes I fall for the configuration of atoms in your poem, and caress your words to find the open end of the tape to unmask what lies beneath. With a hand lens, I scour the intimate dots of l-o-v-e and I stand on my heels, peeking for how you simmer such delicacies.
And maybe the mind does this gimmick, to spare the heart from getting anguished by your ink. To prevent it from falling into the chasms of the nostalgia of the unknown.
And sometimes my heart yanks free the grasp of my brain and comes sprinting towards your phrases, stilling at the vista of the grandeur of your letters.
It's like love at the first sight, and the pupils dilate abducting every cursive of your similes, gasping in your oxymorons, the spurt of that adrenaline inside appraising those alliterations, making me gape speechlessly, endlessly.
It bleeds and laments over the beauty and melancholy of the smidgens of your pen. and so the news dispels to the doors of my deeper insides.
My soul glues its ears to the walls to catch the rhapsody of your syllable or two. It's a brisk highjack of my remains, and my soul holds there defenceless until the ambrosia from your ink drips upon it, soaking it all, easing the perpetual handcuffs.
Your intriguing words rain daggers over my drenched self gashing it into fractions each sliver free-falling into voids of tangibility, finally brandishing to the thorns of your painted roses.
I love it how you don't have an iota of me, making out with your words... Of how my neurons blink in the fervour to recapitulate the hues of the sky from your eyes. Of how you bring my heart in the core of the battlefield, powerless shuddering surrendering sacrificing to your words to you.
That's what your poetry does to me... Forget the butterflies, your words make the niches of my gut turn auburn into frost in a blink of an eye.
Aren't your words but formless, disembodied souls befriending mine? Sometimes taking my hand, sometimes kneeling beside, sometimes sucking the air from me, sometimes blowing in life.