u/Intropoevert

It is the end. For a one last chance. Blessed we are. Never infatuated I would be, I thought.

Stifling it is. The unrequited love. Lessen or hindered, I never thought, the chance would set us apart. It is the end. For one missed shot. I never shot. I should've shoot. I should've anchored the knot. Haunted by thoughts. Conspired the love. Disrupted the hearts. Erupted the feelings. Distorted the why's. It is the end. Devoted I tried to be. Another girl to never see. Waiting for the love.

Waiting for you. And for me. It is the end. But let it be. I curved the anchor west. The Captain is ready to sail. It isn't the end, my love. My compass never fails.

Our eyes met thousand of times

without declaring love to its mate.

I keep asking if it is preordained,

or an inevitable fate?

Never imagined I'd fall this hard,

but "excuse moi, c'est trop tard."

I feel the urge to get closer,

angrily saying: "I feel no remorse"

To love such a girl,

"comme quoi, cest une fleure"

This feels so rare,

but I fathomly dared.

Isn't obvious yet?

Can you tell me how to share

feelings of compassion, but not "peur"

Cling to my hand so tightly,

tell me you won't let it go,

Confess your love with those Tunisian cords:

"نحبك" ، you'd say.

It's not too late to be by my side

sharing "joyeuse heure", but not "pleur"

How could it be possible

to share the same air,

but no one fumbled,

no one actually dared.

Dear my Red,

Days passed till we reached the third year as if distance wasn't enough to sense a relationship without, hearing your voice within each crowd. I hope if I were a stout to tell you frankly 'I love you', and I am about, to throw the last pieces of a lover shout. Who is infallible?Who is a devout? I am a man of love, waiting to take a shot. Let me say it : you are in my diaries like Kafka did with Milena. He wrote letters; I wonder if they were sent? I am afraid you'd vanish from my sight, and I could never be inspired to write. So, I'll keep you within my compressed folders to remember that once I deeply cared if I failed to exert my love. Please, don't leave my Red!

Only If I can, to tell you that I love you plainly in front of your friends "I am into you, I am not afraid" Please, my Red, don't go. Wait for me in the galaxy of love where we exist solely within the fogs of doubts. This time, our tides of hope breathe its last minutes. I cannot tell if you are ready to be my love, or even me to hear ——— that you are already surfing in another boat, and I shall withdraw.

Can someone love someone without a talk

only through eyes as if we are "the old folks".

I see it shines, but I don't know whose for?

Please help me figure it out, my Lord.

Love inside, I need one slide

tell me how to endure.

Me indoors, I need you by my side

let me be the demure.

I cannot unlove the fact I love

being around you.

I don't care at all for a process so slow

at least, meritly pure.

I trust my Lord for you to be my boo

that is utterly so sure.

I crave love as if I've never been loved.

I crave someone's love,

but i detach myself from the world.

I crave the sweetness of "I love you",

only to bear the bitterness of friendzone.

I crave being seen by my loved one,

but as the one loved, once.

I crave the eternal love from movies,

but ends up in what's so called "a gilded cage."

I crave, but do not work for.

I feel, yet cannot ignore.

The way should love be handled

is alike:

frankly said,

easily figured,

fairly argued,

never doubted,

and barely misunderstood.

But I still crave love,

where questions is my kind of loop.

Am I good enough to be

your lover, or even a thief ?

To steal your heart,

but through a treaty of peace.

A visitor of love who turns to be

a squatter of infatuation inside your territory.

A knight on his horse

waiting for his moment to leave.

Not this world,

but his own misery.

When he resides in your heart

for a lasting moment,

for a completed piece.

When crave becomes a sense of ease.

Sitting on the roof waiting for a sign.

A thunder to thud, or a star to shine.

I wanted to love you as you are,

but I couldn't even dare to start.

You are so close to me that it feels so far.

Humming by words in a shuffling mode.

Your name is my symphony;

every time, I restart.

On the roof, where emotions of poets

welcome the breeze of nights.

Calling for your name to meet my side.

Where hummingbirds flee alongside

repeating verses; cite by cite.

I tried to fly with them,

but my wings are not yet classified.

To be considered as

a bird of love,

or a lover with no herd.

Winter isn't winter anymore. Not in terms of rain and cold, but the odor of childhood amd the ability to ignore. Every hardship is a joy. Every tear is a laugh. Every mission is a game. Amd every game is only the start. At a time where no responsibility, no task upon your shoulders. At a time where coffee feels from heaven just as the rain stirs yoir emotions, and even thunder is kind of soothing. It's not about childhood. It's about the abusrdity at a time where nothing felt so stressing, and there is no danger surroundings you.

Should men cry?

Out of love,

or even out of mind.

For when should they sigh?

holding tears not to worry the allies,

or even meet enemies sights.

Men do cry,

but you'll never know

when, how, and why.

Men do need hugs.

From their loved ones;

please, without asking can I.

Men are humans : they need love, care,

but sometimes to hide.

Oh, men!

You shouldn't be tired of life.

At least, not yet.

You have a family to take care of,

a dream to fight about,

and a future to carry

where your name must be stamped

into icons archives.

'Adios' I'd say.

The page turned blank

he became a prey.

Who cares about rhymes

if feelings were deciduous,

words were blended with lies.

'Goodbye' I'd say.

The page burned time

he becomes a doll.

Which door is actually the door?

Whose invited to fill in the poll?

Time flies,

and the page is still blank.

'Ciao' I'd say.

The page fits in the dark,

he becomes one.

"Don't fall in love",

a dad warns his son.

The page will reign

under a forged epoch;

it's not five, O nine.

In early mornings,

unsober, he speaks.

At nights,

fiction, he seeks.

"إلى اللقاء", I'd say.

The page is half vacant

The poet needs to sleep.

The spectrum of love doesn't care

about time,

nor your sense of peace.

Your absence is like the end of a day.

I bid farewell to the sun

laying down on the horizon line.

Darkness slowly prevails

with the last words from the sunset

"see you in the morning, my aspirational view"

Dusk becomes my muse,

to write about the Red passionately,

without feeling blue.

I could say :

"I miss how you beam through the horizon,

only for your light to reach my room at night."

Or maybe :

"The world is black and white,

but what if I could call you baby,

or 'mi amor' would it be hued?"

Sometimes,

I believe that confession is better for us,

but I remember that I miss such a beautiful sunrise everytime I dive so hard at night.

What about the night!

Is it really uncolored?

But what about the day!

Does it need a break from colors?

Except you, my Red —

the aurora of my poems.

My feelings have never been so true.

And the night, one day, will ultimately bloom

to reunite with the sun, no need for a queue.

And this time, my Red,

my night will bid farewell to its gloom.

May I ask you, my Red?

A question I never dared to ask.

Hovered intimate emotions,

erupted volcano of questions,

and urged for a bodyquake.

I tried several times to read

novels; where women, ultimately, be

traitors of men, scarcely, see

the weight of love, the notion of absurdity.

Is it a caprice,

or a wave of uncertainty?

Definitely, it is not love!

May I ask you now?

Are we in love,

or shall I leave?

Perhaps your eyes love to lie,

and your mouth never been able to cry.

My Red, don't lie to me!

You're eyes didn't yet,

but I am terrified you're mouth w'd be.

I tried to detect figures of speech

within "She walks in beauty",

and "How do I love thee"

when excessively loved,

but quietly unseen.

My Red, would you dare to be?

An ode in my manuscripts,

or a phantom in my paintings,

or merely a thought in my dreams.

I tried to mimick the love

of Charles Bukowski when he said :

I love you like a man loves a woman

he never touches only writes to."

and to understand Kafka's love to Milena

as if waiting for a miracle to happen;

not only in my dreams,

but for you to be my forever queen.

"Slow down", he muttered.

The guy took steps further making

light noise with his blakc shoes.

The girl was giving him her back.

She didn't stop at frist,

but something inside urges urged her to.

She finally stopped,

looking down at her white sandals.

They got splashed with mud.

The rain was heavy that even the trees were swaying hard.

The gentleman opened his umbrella,

and got closer to the girl.

Their customs are no more suitable for a ceremony,

they even did not consider it as one.

"For when are we going to play hide and seek games",

he added.

"I cannot bear this anymore",

his eyes melted with tears,

but he was able to cease them.

She looks up towards his direction because

he was obviously taller.

She could resist his countenance:

his outstanding jawline, his blackened wolf eyes,

and the Adam's apple in his neck.

She blushed,

turning her face somewhere else.

"I know you love me", he assured.

She chuckled; not out of mockery,

but she knows it is the truth.

"And why are you sure?",

the girl in the robe asked.

He closed the umbrella and started using it as a crutch while she follows every move he's doing.

"I see it in your eyes.

When your lens broadens daring looking at me.

In your smile, when you blush trying to hide your teeth. And in your tone. When you are talking softly barely noticeable; that is exactly how you talk with me.

I know you, my love. And you can't hide it from me."

He said all this as if he was reading poetry,

while she still follows his lips moving up and down.

She smiles as if she surrendered.

Silence felt heartwarming,

but the gentleman decided to walk forward,

and without noticing she started following him.

He smiled, but ahe couldn't see it.

They both knew that — this is love.

Uncontrollable, I feel.

For once I need to leave.

Far from home,

but close to a heart

that cherishes me being a part;

not apart.

Over the moon, I feel.

Forever wounded, never healed.

In a race to reach the shore

against the sea, there rays my star.

Fluid, serene, wholly calm.

What about my heart?

Trembling, I feel.

Drained from love;

perhaps I need to disappear.

Somewhere far — not like home.

Where I feel left alone; yet at home.

Welling up my tears,

calling up for a refuge within.

Emotionless, I feel.

I crave the love, yet numb I feel.

Shall I call it luck,

or a twisted plan for a new ordeal?

I feel the pain choking my throat.

I feel the lame tightening my chest.

Shall I call this elegy,

or a sealmess ode?

And now...

When this feelings are going to leave?