Transient Falls Poem by Pinaki Dewan

Your eyes speak volumes of Poe,
Your whispers are heavy with jazz,
Your kisses remind me of the first rains of March,
Your breath the cold wind of a mid-winter night.

Your laugh rings throughout my deserted home,
When you are finally free of your past;
You sit staring at the clouds
As transient as yourself.

The candle flickers, I wake out of a poem:
Nothing lasts, not even inner beauty.
I wanted my illusion to last, at least
Till the end of this illusion.

The tears of the moon fall,
They call them meteors,
Children call them shooting stars,
What should I wish for?

When they crash into the reality of the earth,
Why do they burn?
Aren't they supposed to be fantasy?
Aren't they supposed to fulfill wishes?

Wishes are fantasy that have no relation with reality,
They come true in the eyes,
The eyes that speak volumes of Poe,
And let go of stars that have their own fantastic falls.

Then why do they burn?
In what yearning do they burn?
Is there any use yearning for the impossible?
The impossibility that reality and fantasy can ever be one?

Maybe in the last whimpers of the dying flame,
They do.