Shape of you

I wish I had paid attention
under that willow tree

When she told me cypress symbolises death,
how enjambments mean
brokenness, or that caesura signifies
an abrupt end. I wish I had

the gift of a reader
or that of a poet.
Yet a mere dumbfounded watcher I am.
The dreamer who wakes up with wet cheeks but an empty amygdala.
It’s a catharsis after watching a play in a foreign language.

in the labyrinth of words,

I wish
I’d know what to look for –
rhyme schemes or wet cuffs?
And should I grab the motif,
her waist or her heart?

All the unfinished portraits
I buried them under the willow tree
with a poem-full of broken rhymes.


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