He made it clear to my face
I am not a poem
But Everytime I looked at his face
I could scribble lines with my ink
Only this time to my heart
He said it twice
I don't want to be read
But every second of it
He called my name,spoke to me
I could peruse every page of him
Only this time with my eyes
He screamed to my face
I am not a piece of art
But every move he made
left me in urge to find the brush
Paint his face on a piece of canvas
Only this time I painted it on my mind
He whispered to my ears
I don't want to be a song
But every word he spoke out
Felt like a tune, strung from the broken guitar
Attached to his heart
yearning to attach to my heart
Only this time we sang to the beats of our hearts
He is not a poem
But his whole felt like memorised lines
Scribbled in ink and on paper
Only this time he became the broken pen
The poet adored through the ages of living.
©annienasha
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