Stranger to my heart


I call him a painter,

he painted my heart

with the color of love;

Or maybe,

he is a writer,

As he wrote

lyrics for its beats.

Filled silent hours

of my morning,

With his chuckles

dissolved in mine;

Walking on the cold,

wet grasses alone,

Suddenly,

I felt his fingers’

warmth in mine.

A stranger to my heart

he is,

And made my heart

a stranger to me…

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