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They told me the sky was too far to touch, so I planted it in my garden. All I ever wished was, for a perfect love story with a perfect ending. Perfection is a myth dressed in daisy chains and daydream. It looked so beautiful, like I was sleeping and this was the perfect dream I could reason to myself for a long slumber. I held on, like roots gripping the clouds and growing daisies in the sky that no one else believed would bloom. I let the sky grow in the softness of a “certain hope” always, while I pricked my heart on the thorns of “almost” and “not quite”.

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It’s not just showering love. I want it to cascade in stages, from the crown on your head to the sole that carries the weight of you.

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There goes the power of love I once held—the urge to kiss your bruise, is now just an embrace of nothingness and a quiet “sigh, wish I was there”, from the fading shadow of my own love.

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The silence between thunderclaps held more truth than their noise— a pause, heavy with the weight of everything I didn’t say.

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I trust love and I know it that it will come back to me. Even the little sunshine I give, will multiply exponentially and cast rays on me like I’m the sun’s sibling.

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I am standing at the top of my heart, the one that mountained itself. I walked throught the path that once made me a mountaineer in emotion and in loving you. And I go back home without knowing where to find you. There was a way to my heart that could have also let you go easily.

But why did I choose to have you stuck at its dead end?

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I chant your name in so much softness like its the only prayer my lips know.

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