The very first of my hard earned possessions?
It was you. I didn't give birth to you, I just held you in my arms and I knew I had to father you as long as I stay here. I like a commander held onto you, and you that little tiny nose that you were, freshly bathed in my mother's blood, stared at this two feet guy and maybe you nodded for once. With an offer of a smile and some poop. I think, you and I established our presence then. I had someone more than just myself. Our first few minutes in this life, were quite poetically stitched. Don't you think?
I have grown taller and you have grown to be quite rebellious and beautifully annoying, a Xerox of what I dreamt of you, yet today I am miles away still craving to hold you in my arms, my little tiny nose that you are, bathed in something that's inflicting you pain, within, while I wait to see that nod of calmness again. I could have used any of these screens to see you? But would it be the same?
I am still miles away sister.
The week we met,
We scavenged through our little nests,
Gushing like the turbulent wind,
In a hurry to keep up with the orbits of our galaxies,
We flew towards the home of intimacy,
The words we scribbled,
Music and sounds we played,
While you made your bathroom strolls,
From library proposals,
To that comfortable silence that we shared,
It all became so easily mundane,
maybe, it was another those kind of ends we met.
The week we met,
It's in the folds of the books archived in the library of our past,
Where I said,
I wish I could seize you in a bunch of pages,
And I think time did,
I wonder now, though I am an 'architect',
Its always hard to renovate the past,
This one being a different type,
Where maybe this time, instead of Earth,
We will scribble in slates of Mars?