Skip to main content

You and Me

A word never spoken, a line never penned, a desire never expressed, a song never sung.

It went out with a tide that never returned, on a journey that never ends with a boat that never shores to a place that is unknown.

It is in time but yet to be.
But some day it shall well be.
Until then the paper boats that I set to sea,
Will carry the stories of you and me.

I will grow old and light as a breeze
And when these distances are too much to bear
I too shall call in a wave
And ride to the sea.

Rest your mind my dear friend
We shall meet again at the very end
For I have heard that all the rivers in this world
Find their way to the Sea.

Comments

  1. moving and beautiful.....

    It is in time but yet to be.
    But some day it shall well be.
    Until then the paper boats that I set to sea,
    Will carry the stories of you and me.

    loved the opening

    ReplyDelete
  2. This is really though provoking... I too think we will see the people we love in another time, I love the way you write... have a great weekend :)

    ReplyDelete
  3. So lovely .... loved the thought of meeting at the end ... endearing, isn't it?

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.