Let me not say "missing you"

My verse

when it revolves around thinking of you

in a way that is a strange mix of

yearning and a smile

has there two words in common,

"missing you"

and it is perplexing

because whenever I write these two words,

I do really miss you

and it changes the plot

whatever I write

turns into pure yearning

Today, I thought

of devising a plan

I will not say that I miss you henceforth

can I replace there words with

a set of five or six words,

like "in the aura of your sweetness"

or "meddling my thoughts with you"

or even, "in love with your existence?"

People may argue that words are creation

of a human mind

so what will happen If I keep on saying that I am

"missing you"?

I am not aware of someone else' thoughts

I do not want to trade off yearning with desperation

If I am in love with your existence

I see you everywhere

hence, no point of saying that I miss you

Now this decision looks like it will not change

and I feel relived in a certain way

my truth is that your presence in my life is

a healing centric proposition

you are here and now

and I spend my days and nights and

the highs and lows of this eternal drama of breathing daily

with my truth

that you are around

Comments

A

Your aura is consistently brewing in my intractable mind need I say I am drenched in it? the day I met you, and it is so recent like the flower that has bloomed in this spring of transcendence the beating heart and the soulful parleys co-existed, at least for me, in those three hours the beguilement of your demeanor and the insights of your innocence it is all embedded in the cells of my prefrontal cortex, refusing to vanish, reluctant to let-go I cannot detach your thoughts from my current state of meditative nonchalance and that is how it has to be as a strain of Sun touches the feet when I write this at the cusp where the departing winter morning seduces in its spell I can't help but smile and close my eyes I am smitten in a most undiscernible way It is subtle in many ways, definitely profound from another version of my own truth and there are few side effects my intellect has become more illuminated and I am charmed into new horizons of hope I cannot really e...

Is it love of a decadent kind?

The fact that deep down within me is a desire to be a philosopher doesn’t go down so well with what I feel as down and out human and I am in that mold now as I stop for a while and think of her She makes me appear as a lover when we cuddle up our emotions together and in the hazy shades of the day when she needs to drowse the fires of her insecurities I become her mother I don’t think I interchange the roles by choice every moment is undisclosed and beautiful even though chaotic When I dream of her we lose our inhibitions in the wildest of ways in the morning when I talk to her, I become her friend, again And, I do not touch her but we bare our soul, as naked as it can be and just after that emulsification of minds I become her soul-mate never to be apart in a non-worldly sense Surely there is an attraction Sometimes sublime and immaculate sometimes too boldly honest Sometimes a sinful construct W...

Bougainvillea

Truth be told I do not necessarily love or trust flowers They become a poignant humming song for my poetry which is delusionary as it is emerging out of my love for you Few steps aside, there is a bloom let me say it this way on one side they bloom and sell me the free fragrance on the other side of this road is this tiny foliage of the greens and some signs of a lost lake and I see you with a perpetual freshness A music plays somewhere It sounds almost like a cliché I mean the music as if I am a part of a movie It is warm and seemingly romantic but you look at the flowers and feel safe a look of naivety of love and I know your heart It is you that I cherish not because the bougainvillea has bloomed your silent smile fleeces my heart and the flowers, well let us smell the air, for now the shade of Bougainvillea is proudly feasting on your lips and the Sun is shining sporadically on this serendipitous autumn ...

Sandeep Kulshrestha's Poetry

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