When
your love wafts through the air that I breathe like a breeze which caresses the
leaves on the trees in the yard, I become a rustling poet. Have you ever seen a guitar whose strings
become taut sensing the presence of a musician?
I am a guitar with taut strings waiting for the right plectrum.
Yet
you complain that I ignore you. My
listlessness worries you. You think I’m
moving out of the highway into a dark lane which leads nowhere. In your discourse, I am the eternal wanderer
in search of darkness wearied by the lights of the world.
The
gap between you and me is the illusion of a communication that longs to take the
shape you want it to have. My
communication is a breeze that touches the leaves intangibly. My breath is a love poem.
The silence of the guitar is not indifference.
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