Every smallest thing
grows bigger still.
Blown into being by
breath of a fledgling,
floating fairly flung
idea of us.

For your fingers must
cross no mere streams,
but oceans of eyes
before meeting mine

And whispers wilt
beneath my ears;
beneath the din: lost.
Screams, only, sound
loud enough.

Our fingers dance
delight in union,
and no silence
do I know.
How now might
I not dare to dream
your heart beats
any name but mine? 

© s.raheja


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