I have an unwritten letter kept safely inside my book, with the violet flower I picked for you from my garden.
Have I told you that I like the colour violet?
Every night I dream of posting my letter to you with the flower, which would have wilted by the time it reaches you, like the grief of this wait.
An occasional postman bringing a magazine whose subscription is a forgotten affair, only for these summer rains to drench it's glossy front cover, reminds me of you.
The roads look like an unwanted carcass and the only sign of life is inside the heart. How do I put that life into a paper and send it across to you through channels that are long dead?
The flower keeps wilting day by day and I let it be. The next time we meet, it would have dried up like flakes of brown paper. My violet would have vanished.
Will you accept a wilted dead flower from me then?
Have I told you that I like the colour violet?
Every night I dream of posting my letter to you with the flower, which would have wilted by the time it reaches you, like the grief of this wait.
An occasional postman bringing a magazine whose subscription is a forgotten affair, only for these summer rains to drench it's glossy front cover, reminds me of you.
The roads look like an unwanted carcass and the only sign of life is inside the heart. How do I put that life into a paper and send it across to you through channels that are long dead?
The flower keeps wilting day by day and I let it be. The next time we meet, it would have dried up like flakes of brown paper. My violet would have vanished.
Will you accept a wilted dead flower from me then?
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