You are enigmatic.
Your eyes dance
with fantastical secrets.
You look like you live
in always elation,
above and away from fear.
And though every inch of you
seems ready to explode
with poetry and true hallelujahs,
you are as elusive
as the sun this November,
promising your presence only through clouds.
For you know how to flirt with life herself.
But strangely I think,
though I don’t know why,
that I can unlock you,
find your secrets,
share in your poetry.
In each meeting, I feel you,
long after you’re gone
and wish for your presence,
so that when you are here,
we can be nearer,
find a way for our souls to touch,
our hands to clasp,
and our eyes to meet.
Because you are a song,
and I want to sing you.