wanderlust.

art

he spoke with the same grammar and

the known alphabet

yet,

he communicated with me in a noiseless language

our letters had passion

chiseled on every bend,

engraved onto every syllable,

and swirling around every vowel as

we memorised the shape of one another's lips saying the three words that meant so much but were said too often and

the letters were addictive.

we then indulged in beautiful pieces of art;

ones with no actual artist

no paintbrush, nor a pencil.

our art was painted across the sky in

blues and greens and yellows

they were painted with raw emotion and zeal that

each stroke of the paintbrush created

symphonies and

we

hummed

along , because it was the only tune our ears befriended.