A world waiting to be explored

Love is not lukewarm

In the brokenness of your being, 
when the wind holds you a second longer,
and the night speaks to you,
telling tales of the dark,
you know you have known love

Like a silent conversation,
like comfort in the crowd;
Love that is teenage, 
and love that is senile
Love that is not only counting stars by the beach,
but also counting pebbles by the shore

Love that is not the perfect letter;
instead the hundred discarded drafts in the bin,
Love that is not the perfect photograph,
instead the shared coyness when fingers graze

Let love not be known by the anxiety during falling out,
let love be the distance you didn’t care for,
or the mountains that your emotions echoed with

Let love be the last lap of your race,
let love be the philosophy you barter your sleep for,
let love be the metaphor you resonate with,
let love be the song you made your symphonies for

And yet if love cannot find a testimony today,
regret the hesitance you took to,
repent the uncertain wobble you couldn’t look over,
blame yourself for how love couldn’t seek you

Because love is to dive into the waves, 
and to fly into the valleys,
it is not a step back,
it is a kiss later
because love, my friend, is not lukewarm;
Love is intense,
love is a poem in conflict,
a poem by the sea in fury.


This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 58; the fifty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Saravana Kumar Murugan, the editor of Shades Of Life book series.
The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own

With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places

Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears

For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return

For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return

To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home

When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon58 & #Aativas50. Participation Count: 13.
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