With every kiss, they had a spark
She was red when with him.
With every touch, she had an ache
To be held in the dim.
He made her heart race
Brought colour to her cheeks;
She was charmed by his grace
His whispers made her weak.
Clasped in walls of secrecy
Resided the forlorn love
Unrequited, the heart longed ceaselessly.
A paper, a pen; a woman, her love.
The pen flitted across the paper
In a long uneven line —
The pen knew the touch of the paper
The paper knew too – just too fine.
Amidst a beautiful composition,
The ink grew dark.
Devoid of emotion —
The pen alone left its mark.
The message was clear
Written in blue and black.
Despair seared her,
She could not go back.
“Why, why?” To herself, she cried
A lot of hurt, a little jaded;
Days, weeks, months passed,
She wished for her memory to be slowly faded.
Not a crinkle or crumble
Or even a blotch that lies,
For everything happened in her heart;
She lived a soulless life.
Like a gust of wind in a cold winter night,
Desiring a period but ending with a comma,
She danced under the spell of moonlight
— A pair of twinkling eyes greeted her with drama.
Deceived by stolen moments,
Wet by another pen,
The paper was now a book,
The pages have become golden.