When the world gets a little older to us,
Life will mostly runs through the pavements of our wrinkles,
Sitting on a rustic wooden chair,
Singing old melodies off the strings,
Urge to spoil the puddles of rain, will get a break,
A space reserved for unimaginable utopia,
On the banks of waving flags,
Our history will be recalled for present,
Then we’ll look at each other again for the first time,
I will ask you to hold my hand at the moment and be my valentine.

I write every ounce of word on skin of your hands,
with the new words that I have never told you in decades,
All the stories and poems, unsung and unwritten,
Unexpected to the moon, unimaginable to the stars,
Lying on the grass outside, measuring the sky line through our old blurry eyes,
I will tell you some truth, but still welcoming all your beautiful lies,
Just stay by my side.

I believe there will be rumbling clouds, with their crazy faces,
Turmoil of gustily wind, whirlpool of our kisses and hugs,
A smooth lining on our textiles,
Written messages on papers crumbled under every cold pillows,
Explaining why it is what it is, with a notion of unexplained questions,
An offering of waiting wishes, that came true at the virtue of allegations.

We will tumble on the couch for a sip of whiskey in a tea cup with cold hands,
Shadowing behind the counter of light in sepia, coming through the curtains,
Sitting along with our coming adventures enveloping in dark destinations for making it last,
Gathered on top of the photo album we have carried,
And always been each others’ letter and vowels with me as small caps and you being my only Capital letters.