By Arhaan Chopra
I write to you, my muse, by the light of a stolen moonbeam. Every word
I use seems inadequate and pale compared to the fiery scope of my
passions. You are the blank verse in my sonnet, the whispered yearning
in every poem.
Is it presumptuous to confess that my mind wanders off to you like a
bee to a blossom. For like an Elizabethan heroine, I yearn for a
midnight dance, as I wait for the time and place to declare the depth
of my emotions, lost in the love that died with you.
For pardon me, as I cry with the hopes of love, my poor pen falters
and fails, for it can no more portray, what in my heart, for it
feel-feels misery, oh, I wish could sing to you, a wild sweet song,
the Smiths probably, my love, my love, my beloved, but since I cannot,
let me whisper then, though my words are weakness, my love to you
shall be, as the tide that ebbs and flows, unbroken, everlasting, yet
you’ll never know it, till the stars sings it, to your twinkling eye.
Perhaps, like the characters in a novel, we shall eventually meet
under the stars of death. But until that time, my beloved, I write our
love in the burning ink of a thousand unspoken words.
I faltered to capture the beauty, affection, and yearning I hold for
you, for every stroke of my pen seems to fall short of the depths of
my feelings, my dearth of feelings, leaving me breathless, for I fell
in love with someone, for I felt the love that even words could not
fully convey.
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