We met on a wave of passionate decision,
grand visions of us bubbled up into the wind.
Despite our stark contrasts and flushed crimson desire,
our love was so shaded by the hue of the wind.
Simmering affection and dreams of defection,
I often fantasized of the new of the wind.
When love's foggy descent left a haze near my heart,
I found myself dreaming of a view from the wind.
Your version of love, suffocating consumption,
trembling, I cried out: I'd rather chew on the wind!
Amplified, tensions swelled part-way through the last act...
as our curtains fell, I took my cue from the wind.
To glide with a strength, a freewheeling renegade,
I had convinced myself that wings grew from the wind.
Improvising encounters of consequence with
unyielding stubbornness, I flew into the wind.
Through tumultuous night, to the mist of the morn,
I learned of fragility from dew on the wind.
While in the rapture of hearing my voice, I found
inspiration to listen deeply through the wind.
And although you've moved on by now, my friend, please know:
I glide on our love story in lieu of the wind.
A poetry prompt from naming constellations (Ghazal poetry form)