Monday, January 18, 2010


(In which I could never find the right and sufficient words to tell you what you are to me.)

Your eyes never tire of aristocratic beauty
And they always are free for censored pages
But they never seemed to be when I flashed a smile and my
Texts are never worth your time.

Your lips admittedly never run out of lies to utter
Yet I believe the prevaricator that you are.
Did I sense the subtle truth in them
Or was I just another stupid woman?
I know. You never told me to believe.

This is not meant to insult you for I’m sure you’ll never know.
And if you did, the insult is mine
For I bothered again to write about you
And your elusiveness
Your beautiful elusiveness.

Have I told you that your eyes are enough to melt my internal ice down
and your smile makes me feel blessed?
That your name is more than a reason to be breathless
And that I sometimes believe the second god-like word is destined?
But Nirdla, worry not, for I know
That you always have the heart for and your eyes on
Never for me.
Never on me.
January 18, 2010
9:30 PM