seasonal love

He says

I am a rainfall

that he loves to wear on those days when

he feels lonely gazing at a faraway horizon;

I am a dew drop

that he loves to caress on those special occasions

when he is alive and positive;

I am an autumn sky

that he fancies to look at while listening

to his favorite Beethoven;

I am a silver moonlight

that he allows to be in his patio on a favorite holiday;

I am his sunshine,

I am his rainbow,

only on those special hours,

only on a few quiet times

when he indulges himself to be happy.

But

rainfall is seasonal;

dew drop and the golden brown autumn sky

often misplace themselves in the hustle bustle of sky scrapers;

the eclipsed moon or the feeble sunrays keep struggling for survival among the numberless cancerous folds of life;

and the rainbow loses its hue in the gray corners;

those quiet special moments and silent unusual days

remain very few too,

being swallowed-up among the usual clatter and clang.