When I see you, I don’t see a figure made out of flesh and bones. I see a poetry being written.

I see the hints of punctuations between every sip of coffee that you take.
I see the wounds inflicted on you by those who held the pencil too roughly and the soft shades and shadows of writings belonging to those who you’re slowly letting go of.

I see the rhymes that your smiles and tears share, and wonder who was the reason behind stitching them together.

Sometimes, I get lost behind understanding what your hair, blowing in the autumn breeze might really mean. But that’s poetry to you. I guess in the end I can’t always understand the meaning to you but I know there’s one, and I’m sure it’s beautiful.


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