But he wanted to pen down that magic.

Perfection is not writing, but portrayal.

For him,

To write was to live another life,

As if he treaded upon the cloud of thoughts,

Like he chose the other way as Frost did,

To write was nothing for him, but connecting the dots.

A day without writing was love without zeal,

A soul without a feel,

Some secret seeking a reveal,

Or a wound, yet to heal.

“So, you have to tell this, what makes you write?”

She insisted.

“It’s just habitual and comes with the flow.”

He persisted.

The person who had given him thousands reasons to write,

Her question was like, the sun

Asking the moon,

“How do you get so bright?”

She never hated that morning walk with him,

Was that enough to guess, that the cup of love was

Filled to brim.

He was that half lived dream in her Eyes,

And in his, she was the much awaited paradise.

When the world wanted the perfect to happen,

His pen stretched, yawned for the paper,

And wrote imperfection.

He gazed for the ‘magic’ he wanted to write, every dawn,

Not to his surprise, found that,

‘Magical Imperfection’ in her eyes,

In her voice, in all of her and beyond.

As they say, some love stories can get weird.

That was all the imperfection he could muster,

Earlier, he wished to write magic,

Now he prayed, he could write her.