There's this boy I hide
in my poetry, when I write about
wind chimes dancing at the tunes
of heartbeats – they're his.
When I write about the hand that holds mine
as if it was looking for it
since the beginning of forevers – it's his.
He sits between the spaces
of my words like the warm space
I never thought I deserved,
he is like the waves to the ocean
of my metaphors – hitting the shore
and taking me away with itself.
Every time he looks at me, and doesn't talk?
It’s because his eyes are too busy
creating a home for me,
because I have left mine for someplace warm that had camouflaged as safe, because that's what home
is supposed to feel like – not like just some
He scribbles swirls on the length
of my body – and I let him.
My skin stops trembling
the moment it finds the warmth
of his assuring fingers.
He is a paradox, every inch of him,
that on some days he's staring into space
thinking about what happens when one void
and on some days he buttons his shirt
incorrectly and screams his favourite songs,
and with every goofy revelation,
I fall in love with him
all over again,
My heart has never known what giving up
feels like – only losing.
And each time he pulls me closer
leaving a trail of jitters on every part of me,
Every breath he exhales near
makes me realise how nothing in the world
could make me give up
And something about the way he looks at me,
and doesn't look away until I blink first
tells me that he isn't planning to go anywhere
so there's this boy,
I know I have hopelessly been in love with and I wouldn't have it
any other way.
There's this boy.