We've carved our story out of imagined nothings, caricatures crafted of a conjoint conscious. You and me, and the omnipresent, sacrosanct, distance.
We've lived a night or two engulfed in each other's voices or maybe a gaze or two, intensified, insane, transcontinental reckless, romance.
I've learnt a thing or two about keeping time and distance on the tips of my fingers, sometimes, deep into the midnight I feel them nuzzling at my toes as well. The relative irony, Oh treacherous, treacherous time! Oh tricky, distance you!!
I am a person moulded of a few years' longing and ages worth of whispers carried through the air!
I have been your muse, your scribe, and your tales; years' worth of longing oh! and time haunted by none other than.....the time!
I have constructed a magnum opus on the threadbare canvas of your fleeting presence. A masterpiece to be revered through the ages.
And carved a little memorial out of our fragrant mediocrity; the sweet ordinary-ness of your run of the mill romance.
OUR beautiful run-of-the-mill romance.
I long for a day from an imagined future, with a little ingredients from the past often scoffed at, and a few miseries and memories and contentment of the present.
I long for the privilege of your constant albeit silent presence.
We've lived a night or two engulfed in each other's voices or maybe a gaze or two, intensified, insane, transcontinental reckless, romance.
I've learnt a thing or two about keeping time and distance on the tips of my fingers, sometimes, deep into the midnight I feel them nuzzling at my toes as well. The relative irony, Oh treacherous, treacherous time! Oh tricky, distance you!!
I am a person moulded of a few years' longing and ages worth of whispers carried through the air!
I have been your muse, your scribe, and your tales; years' worth of longing oh! and time haunted by none other than.....the time!
I have constructed a magnum opus on the threadbare canvas of your fleeting presence. A masterpiece to be revered through the ages.
And carved a little memorial out of our fragrant mediocrity; the sweet ordinary-ness of your run of the mill romance.
OUR beautiful run-of-the-mill romance.
I long for a day from an imagined future, with a little ingredients from the past often scoffed at, and a few miseries and memories and contentment of the present.
I long for the privilege of your constant albeit silent presence.
