by pavita singh
You say you’re not a poet,
But the way you describe your
dreams,
All your fantasies, hopes,
and desires,
The way you explain to me
your pain,
You invoke in me feelings
that aren’t my own,
That to me is poetry.
You say a paper filled with
words is empty,
That you can only write with
structure,
Can’t just let your pen flow.
But the way you express
yourself with eloquence,
Make me wish I could watch
your lips move without rest,
The way I see beautiful
images in all your words,
That to me is poetry.
You say that you’re
incapable,
Of seeing what can’t be seen.
But the way you know what I’m
feeling,
Without my uttering any
sound,
The way you perceive subtle
messages,
In anything I do, or write,
or say,
That to me is poetry.
You say you can only follow
rules,
Since you don’t want others
to have the wrong impression.
But the way you write to me,
Without caring what I think,
Like when you said magic is
something ruined if understood,
Or when you defined love as a
mysterious, intangible,
Inexplicable obsession,
The way you make me feel a
burning in my chest,
A bouncing sensation in my
stomach,
I say it from the core of my
heart,
That to me is poetry.