Words

Words leaped out of neatly bound and well-written book a long time back and became miracles in dark nights. Some writer, whose heart dribbled with love set these words on paper, wove them in silence, with infinite longing and pure love.

Though I longed to write with the same magical touch never knew this fire till you came at midnight and peeked in my dreams with a smile. Awake from your dreams, I wanted to tell you, with words like focused arrows on what ate my heart when you were not here with me.

All the words, sighs, tears and smiles were spent on what you meant to me though you were not mine to own or to possess. Like a child with a favourite toy, I try to form with words; different games that might back to me, at least in an imaginary realm.
This heart wants not to please the mob; only to sing about what it remembers the most of a long-lost love. These songs have no art; they speak of the loss in not having you beside me. They have neither rhyme nor rhythm but only a wild beat of words that are quaint to the ear, yet in their own way, fresh-faced.

Words come, with its thousand limbs, entangled meanings and nuances, like a sudden burst of rain that creates ripples in still water, while the great green forest holds watch over with its mighty silent wombs of understanding, from that moment when you came in my midnight dreams.