PROSE POETRY
The Enigma of Her Head on My Shoulder
An Ode to the Woman Who Became My Dawn
As I write into the early hours of the morning, your head finds its sanctuary on my shoulder — a celestial body choosing to rest on my earthly plane. Your presence is an alchemy that turns the ink of my pen into liquid gold and the parchment beneath it into a sacred scroll. How could I ever wish for you to lift your head and break this spell? Your touch is worth a thousand kingdoms, a thousand sonnets, a thousand dawns breaking over desolate landscapes.
The weight of your head on my shoulder is a paradox: as light as a feather, yet as monumental as the moon’s influence over the tides. It’s as if you’ve unlocked a hidden reservoir of inspiration within me, and my words flow like rivers rushing toward an ocean of unspoken desires. The sun itself seems to have traded places with you, choosing to rest on my shoulder, kissed by the morning light yet never wearying.
Your head, a silken river of thoughts and dreams, seems to write its own poetry on the very fabric of my being. It’s a symphony conducted in the quiet, a Chinese fan unfolding in slow motion, each segment a stanza, each movement a verse. How could I ever convince you that I am not just captivated but utterly consumed by this intimate grace?
