Shriya PrasadOnce a boy I loved for the first time,
Too old for a first time,
With all the blue of my heart,
The boy was art,
Beautifully melancholic,
Both knew this love was chronic
I called his aura golden,
Birthing a bond that was already sullen.
Wrath never lay upon his smile,
Willing not to walk more than a mile,
Every single breath and giggle that I adore,
Having never called him amor,
He made oceans sing me lullabies,
In the horizon where our entire life stood by,
In his arms, mothering and smothering,
A thousand kisses with the memory of a few.
One day, to a nursery,
Oranges, baskets of jam and hands together,
In a blanket that was too small, too warm for either,
Too close that intimacy called the Jury,
Unable to look into his eyes, his chest I bury,
I turned to the sun – so calm and golden,
A moon praised for the similar beauty it had beholden,
Love did not meet us in small change or in alms,
An ocean, a tide, a moon and a love in arms,
Majestic things that dissipated to be admired.
A life full of love,
Lay at the tail of his lips when he smiled,
I could swim a thousand seas,
Grow roses in the ocean,
Look at a hundred burning suns,
Ask time to pause every other second it runs,
Weave little dresses of stone from the moon,
Gather air and sell it at noon,
Yet still see only love.
I held him too close to let go,
Nipping the bud of the sun in full glow,
To cherish what was always ours,
In little vessels of eternity that held dried flowers,
You, for one shall always be my lover,
Not in the now, in the now over.
I shall look for you in the sun, my beautiful golden boy,
For in this love you; the master and the employee,
I will hold your hand in memory this winter,
Leave this love before no paper cuts on our fingers.
Could you find a way to leave me now?
I will find you one day in someone new.
Poems hide your desperation,
Aid you to believe in love, a total deception.
A love too big for the tiny fake pockets to hold,
If you put love in your pockets,
Where would you warm your hands?
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