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O lover! Where are you.

Darling. Let’s go to Paris. Let’s give this story a poem. You be Jill. I’ll be Jack. And we’ll buy a dusty apartment, On the rusty watery avenues of Paris We’ll open a store, of poems. I’ll write songs. I shall be the poet of sorrow. And you shall be the muse of joy. I’ll write poetry, of silence. Silent poems, wordless. The ones no one will ever recite, And no one will ever hear. But if you could hear my thoughts, You would still hear them, In your ears, ringing. If you woul

Nick

Nick

28 Nov 2016 1 min read
O lover! Where are you.

Darling.
Let’s go to Paris.
Let’s give this story a poem.
You be Jill. I’ll be Jack.
And we’ll buy a dusty apartment,
On the rusty watery avenues of Paris

We’ll open a store, of poems.
I’ll write songs.
I shall be the poet of sorrow.
And you shall be the muse of joy.

I’ll write poetry, of silence.
Silent poems, wordless.
The ones no one will ever recite,
And no one will ever hear.

But if you could hear my thoughts,
You would still hear them,
In your ears, ringing.
If you would only find the Quiet.
The one we’ve all been looking for, since eternity.

I’ll write poems. For, and of.
Of me. Of you. Of us. Of them.
Of all the stories, without a name.
Of all the people who ever parted.
Of all the battles anyone ever lost.
Of all love, unrequited.
Of all desires, unfulfilled.
Of all the stories that were meant to be, but their being was proclaimed dangerous.
Of broken hearts.
Of unsung melodies.
Of unheard lullabies.

And when you’re on an old aunt.
And you’re ever sad,
You’ll find find yourself humming them.
You would wonder, like a baby.
Where you’ve heard those melodies, those songs.!! Often.
But you won’t see anyone around.

Darling.
A poet once lived.
On rusty watery avenues of Paris. With you.

Don’t try to remember his face,
A vague sketch will appear in your memory.
You won’t recognize me, but that would be me.
No, don’t try to look for me.
I’ll be around. I’ve always been.
Ever changing forms.
Ever hovering, in your shadows.

Open your cupboard.
Shuffle. Look.
You’ll find an old, torn diary.
Of a dead poet.
Full of beautiful poems, never heard by a soul.
No one would have even heard of his name.
Or the songs. Or the melodies.

Darling.
In those moments,
Remember.

There is no purpose of art.
There is no art of purpose.
There’s just Beauty.
And us.

I, was always your poet,
I shall always be.