Him

I looked at him for one long moment,
And thought,
One day I'd write about him.
Not in the way Neruda described his mistress with graphic detail of her face and hair,
Not even in the way Poindexter wrote about his lover fathoming her as the source of all beauty on the earth.
The world knows he's a beauty, inching his way to the physical perfection.
But that's not what i want to write about him.
It's how I think of lights when I think of him,
Yellow and Distant. Glowing till Glory.
But also, how I think of dark when I think of him,
Silent and soothing. Where all colours are one.
It's how I associate with him with music,
Not because god gifted it to him,
But because he gifted it to me.
Holding my hand and leading me to the language of stars.
It's how being with him feels like being lost,
Not in a forgetting your way to go home way,
But in not being wanting to be found way.
It's how i laugh when i am with him
With all my heart, with all the appreciation. Real Loud. Real and Loud.
And he though tells me to lower down, never really wants me to.
It's how he talks,
Never saying too much, never saying too less.
Hurting you when he intends to.
Apologizing when he needs to.
Telling you things, you need to hear.
Slipping some things which you want to hear.

It's how I think of grief when I think of him,
Because the smile on his lips somehow never reaches his eyes.
But I think of him when I am happy
Knowing that although with his sad eyes, he'd still celebrate me.
I think of mystery when I think of him,
Not because he is one.
But because he thinks he is one.
Little does he know that he is too simple for a world this complicated
Too blunt for a world this twisted
A solved puzzle which I relish to try and solve again.
But mostly I think of time when I think of him,
Maybe he met me ahead of my time
Maybe I met him beyond his
Because this is not our time.
I wish it was.
But it is not.
And lastly I think of him, when I think of me.
Too much different to be friends.
Too much alike to be strangers.

But I once thought I'd write something about him,
A song, a line, a paragraph, a poem.
Never realizing it can never be done.
Never realizing that he was the poetry.