By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )
By dim lamplight, he pens his lines,
his hand shaking as words falter,
each stroke a bridge to reach her heart,
through ink that flows like whispered water.
He writes of skies that she can't see,
of stars he finds in empty rooms,
weaving tales of distant days
with threads that fray like old perfumes.
The letters pile, sealed but sent,
crossing miles in fragile folds,
yet all they hold are shadows cast,
Of brush of warmth, he longs to hold.
He reads her words, pressed tight in ink,
hears her voice through paper’s weight,
but still, he sank, heart tethered strong,
for a touch the letters can’t relate.
So he writes, night after night,
a keeper bound to paper’s edge
longing to feel what words can’t reach,
a love held close, a silent pledge.
By F Lalthanliana ( t.f. )
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