hand in hand.

the hands quiver when it comes to
penning you a garland of poems
to adorn you with –

you reside softly between pink clouds
and the incommunicable, hair pleated
with jasmines – florally scented,
like the aroma of sandalwood married
the first blossom of petrichor,

how am i, a mere man, supposed to dream
of even attempting to capture you in
your opulent glow?

tell me firmly, do the words exist?

--

another napowrimo poem i didn't post here.