In the rustic hallowed woods,
Sunshine spluttered like an enigmatic source of memories,
And there sat Reed, his head on kips’s lap with dreams over his head hovering with familiarities.
As the Rays touched his clear forehead,
With a hinted aspect of his numbered days,
An ever-aristocratic glow ushered through his smile,
And he laughed at the thoughts that struck his mind to the last mile.
He remembered how he used to count the number of red streaks in her hair,
Mystic eyes, such a persona, that moment was rare.
And how they’d hold hands and cross the stream jumping on the sweetly placed pebbles.
And how kips cried when she fell
On one of those,
And how cute she looked with that small scar on her nose.
8 years, 2 days, 14 hours, it had been.
And as the Sundew trickles changed into the wintery moonlight,
All I wanted to do was soak myself in the moon’s perspiration,
And gasp into the lights that’d guide me to my inspiration.
There are these rare moments in life when,
You paint me the sky blue,
And you go away and turn it to rain
And I lived in your chess game,
And you changed the rules everyday.
‘I’ll give you an onion,
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper,
Like the careful undressing of love,
It will blind you with tears.’
These soothing words all but die in the caving heights of the hills,
How I wished Kipsie would be here.
Those fluttering butterflies in my heart,
And that turquoise that you’d wear in the lushing springs,
I still don’t know where to go to and where to start,
I am sure you’ll be somewhere, in the limiting conductivities of infiniteness and dare.
I still remember the creaminess her cheeks wore,
Our last goodbye, and the laughter whose absence has made me, all wry.
Her chemiluminescence sparkling like an ushered delight,
And the unfathomable experiences that brought light,
I won’t forget her, till I have life, till I have life.
Reed was 16 then,
Aspirations and dilemma were eye-opening lenses,
And in the next second of unfinished time,
One of those fifty-six thousands struck a chord deep in the harmonics of his delicate mind.
Time it was. A story of time he decided to find.
He hoped of finding time,
And what he hoped more on was that probably in time, with time, learning from time and at the end before time runs out, he’ll find kips.
He’ll find her and tell her that her heart was never hers alone.
Finding time, though was a very tough job indeed,
But painting your mind through timeless limits and establishing the sanctity of sultry vividness,
That could be done, Reed!
And he drew the first thing that struck his mind,
He’s got his Kips to find.