There are remnants of you in here.
The taste of your voice lies undiluted,
pervading the air.
Sometimes, in the dead of the night,
when the crickets have stopped their night-time chat
the walls throw your echoes at me.
And I had thought your voice had dissolved in the summer
or twisted and muffled in the rain,
the words losing sound, disfigured beyond recognition.
But no, they were always here
dispersed between the pages of a book.
And when I flip through,
singing again in your little voice.
They sing, and as the words seep in,
they paint your face,
the eyes that can calm a butterfly,
the lips where a waterfall could find rest.
Will I ever find
a lake of serenity like you again?
Will I find one
who cups the sun in her palm,
mixes her warmth in its light
and sprinkles its rays with her smile?
I sleep sleepless sleeps,
Your body languidly painting the landscape of my mind.
Your hands weaving me into a tree
that sees no autumn,
whose leaves laugh with their veins.
Yet when I wake up,
the clock wears a tired face,
and your memories drip from its hands.