I often wonder,
How tirelessly my pen, and paper,
Listen to my situations, tales and also about my man.
Sooner or later,
Will I stop talking about him to the world.
What if people don’t listen to me,
I have my own way to reciting, to the pen and paper, and I also at times talk to myself and I am happy.
Am glad, he is mine, I call him mine, he belongs to me, and he is my man. And I recite about him to trees, and clouds.
Woods and water.
And as moon sneaks the sky, I stand still starring at the moon, cause maybe there my man is being illuminated by the moons light, and those memories we make every single day, reminds me about the aspirations. And then I feel, I could live like this for longer instead of quarrelling shit of society. When he comes home midnight, waking me with his caring kiss, I clutch him to heart. Maybe then I want everything to end at the moment. Or I would just crave more and more for him, and with him. 💕💕