It’s 4 PM on a pretty Sunday afternoon. The sun is out for a second day in a row and the clouds are making a painting in the sky. I could spend the whole day just admiring the beauty of the day and writing ballads, sonnets, odes, haikus, in multiple languages. I know a few for that matter.
I have a little vocabulary of words which I can put to use. A little rhyme here, a free verse there can work and there’ll be views on my blog from countries I might never visit. But, I wish, if you could read it.
I wish you knew about the poetries. The writings, the love, the heart breaks, the words I selected each night to form anecdotes of my life. I wish you could read about my heartbreaks and tell me it’s okay. I wish you could tease me when I wrote a romantic poem and ask me who is it for.
I wish I wrote for you before. I wish you had read it. I wish you knew there’s an old soul in me who gets it’s heart broken every once in a while. But, I think you knew that.
I wish you knew I was poet. I wish you told me to write for you. I wish you’d read it then. I wish you’d seen me falling in love. I wish you’d seen me grow old.
I wish you are still loving me as much as you did.
Dedicated for my loving grandmother. Pain demands to be felt today.
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