Esh Winning
You love roses –
and I see you, tending to them
with the charm of someone
who could coax a thorn
to take a day off –
a whisper here, a touch there,
and even the flowers must surely bloom faster
just to catch your gaze.
You love wine,
and I imagine you swirling it with precision,
like you’re divining ancient secrets
from the depths of the glass.
Perhaps you laugh,
perhaps you toast to things
no one else in the room can understand –
and yet, somehow,
I’d picture myself still raising my glass.
Seems you juggle life effortlessly,
balancing chaos in one hand
and joy in the other,
while I, in my humble disarray,
can barely balance a teacup
without fearing disaster.
And your name –
you call it funny,
but to me, it rings like poetry,
the kind that arrives unannounced,
stays in your chest for days,
and reminds you of soft dawns,
of spring mornings too perfect to repeat.
We haven’t met yet,
but if your presence can shine
this brightly through mere words,
then I can only imagine
how dazzling it must be when
we stand face to face.
