I spend afternoons
Bottling up your rhymes
Into old vials of Guerlain
So when empty nights come
With all their dreariness
I can spray the verses
Onto my feathered pillow
And drift into sweet sleep
On a bed of your fragrant poetry.

~

Solitude sometimes becomes a presence; so real that you can almost touch it. Over 20 million people in this city and yet this eerie silence. Also, I’m running dangerously short on rhymes. So I turn to a song that is recommended like a magical potion for precisely such days. It is pure therapy. Nothing comforts my heart quite like this one. Hope it feels like a hug to you too.

~