The Times We Soaked Our Hearts

Isn't it romantic how my tears

Trace your permanent scar?

It carves a scripture.

I tiptoe through the roses.

You'll find my feet facing the wrong way altogether.

I think I could be a poet.

The bulging bees in the throat often bumble when I speak.

Or perhaps I am in love with the sound of my voice.

I'm louder when I write to you.

Every single word nibbles around,

Like a baby bird learning how to fly.

A hauntingly tender quill touches the paper.

My wrists sway the syllables.

Every single word requisites passion.

They say the words thrown in must be an indemnity of what's left in the ocean.

So when I seek to swim a little stronger,

I drown as the waves swift the surface.

But as your touch unfolded and chimed, 

I rose from the currents of my vice. 

In the rue of hasty sun,

When the rain was likeliest I had known.

You grew daisies on my barren hand.

And when my faith slipped easily

At the dawn of each word,

Your grace sprawled melodies and confided in my heart.

Do you remember the times the intuition failed?

And we were caught between our fears.

Boundless meadow unraveled the rationale of our minds.

And then I saw you smile.

Beside a mellow garth

Where our hearts intertwined.

And darling,

Isn't it romantic how we traced our stars underneath those scars?