Little Did It Know...

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 Tired of being the poet

My heart longed to be the poem someday.

Little did it know....

That I was already the rainbow in your canvas

Painted with all the colours of your love

Amidst your dark monsoon clouds.

Messy, in my own imperfections

I was already your unfinished work of art

Adorned by the beauty that resides in your eyes.

I was already the smile, that your lips hold.

And I was always the wild musk of your favourite perfume

That fills your breath with ecstasy.


The dreams, that stealthily knock upon your weary eyes

In the depths of the night.

And the moon that peeks through your window

Smiling at you, as your eyes meet mine.

The morning sun to your December dawns,

Melting into dewdrops in the crevices of your heart.

The zephyr, to your summer evenings...

Making my way, through the windows of your soul.

I was always the song, that you keep humming as your day goes on,

And I was always the ink, that stain your fingers

When you play with metaphors and epithets.


I was always that page of your diary,

Where you pour your heart out

Laying naked, unpretentious...

With nothing, to hide your bare soul

With nowhere, to seek refuge from your darkness.

And I was always your home

Holding you tight during your worst nightmares

Caressing your battle scars, with all my love

And lulling your exhaustions to sleep.


I was always your muse...

And I was always that unfathomed piece of your heart,

Safely hidden, like a pearl within her oyster.

Tired of being a poet, 

My heart longed to be a poem someday.

Little did it know,

That I was always one....

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