In close touch

In close touch



The poetry book had songs,

songs that he had written for her.

He gifted it to her.

She kept it safe

but she bid him farewell

saying, "live well".



She thought this guy thought too much of her,

it frightened her

the height of the expectations

that she would have to deliver,

she was just a mortal

and he behaved immortal.



How could she!

Helpless,

totally helpless.

She prayed so hard for him,

surrendering herself meekly

at the altar of Destiny.



The poetry book had songs,

songs that he had written for her.

He gifted it to her

even when he knew

that she hadn't yet the full feel-heart

to feel his Qalby-heart.



He knew the book would be safe,

and then maybe, he thought,

just maybe,

one day, the lines

might just take her common sense

to the flight of a spectacular sense.



He did not think too much about her

like in the way

that she thought he did.

He did think of her well and enough

ever intent

within an extent.



But this poet was so deep into his thoughts

for the love of the dear world,

that he studied her like a simile,

and "her being" as a metaphor

to understand and decipher

the Holy Scripts made for him-N-her.



With her as a metaphor,

with every passing day,

he deciphered out Holy book lines,

such wisdom

that very few souls could own

and had ever dared to snare upon.



He did not think too much about her,

she was just an ordinary girl,

with ordinary sense,

but yes

with a good heart,

the very reason she spoke to this man-heart.



But he never knew

that he did not think too much about her,

but indeed he liked her for her goodness,

but yes, he was too serious

for his love for the near and dear,

too serious about the metaphor

that he had made out of her.



But to understand the aforementioned,

it took him sometime...

for in the hidden side of unconsciousness,

it said, "your metaphor

would only be in touch

as long as the 'girl' too was in close touch."



But now, that he understood,

he was very sad for himself,

he the - headless heartless egg,

for it was too late

as the girl had left taciturn(.)

Will she ever return?



But he was very happy for her,

for now he knows

that he never has to expect

anything too much

from her

but instead from the metaphor.



VI-II-MMX

The poet in close touch,

surrenders the pain, 

O lord, 

all words are metaphors 

of thy unnameable Name.

VI-II-MMX