My lover is not the moon; the moon speaks in ego too much for a stone that fakes its glow.
He never listens.
He only talks about the star that shines
He talks of evening shadows cascaded
on his stones but he never asks me
how I am.
He never questions why I am always
drinking my coffee in the .a.m.s
My lover is not the ocean.
The ocean is not strong enough to bear the weight of my words
or the beats of my heart as they intensify every time we learn new depths in each other.
He would drown in the tides and ebbs of the thoughts overflowing inside my bones.
He is crimson in the evening when I leave,
and he is blue when I return.
His embrace is not wide enough to
hold my broken pieces without getting hurt.
My lover is not the sky.
He is grey like ash smoke and his patches
of the white race against his irises.
He confuses me when he goes so black suddenly.
He loses his confidence when the stars keep him company.
He blushes orange when he is purple bruised, and it is not that he
might have lost a piece of his soul.
Though he lets the birds consider him as a temporary home,
he stood still and silent as I asked
him to take me high when I felt low.
My lover is a ghost boy,
A catastrophic episode of
He bleeds tears and
cries my name.
He is an angel out of statues.
He is frozen petals and sour jam.
He is like
A blink in starlight themed nights.
He is dawn, and he is the reunion of
the happy memories I
collected as a child.
My lover is not on the list of past
My lover is not the light bulb in my skull.
My lover is not another skeleton,
my lover broke the whole closet down.
My lover is a charming maniac, and he knows more poems than peers.
My lover is the only ocean in the sky and the only moon witjin my reach.