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“Try as I might, I can't write you—it’s like nailing sunlight onto this white page. I cannot, for you are a dream of yourself. You who is my beginning and my destination, even my path is You. This is Love. But what is love? A silent four-letter word, when the music of the entire language is You. You see beyond me, and into my possibilities. But all my possibilities lead to You. For it was written that I would love you, that it'd be your destiny to greet me. That You would be my destiny, and the rememberers will utter my poems only because I loved You. Try as I might, I can’t write you—it’s like nailing sunlight onto this white page. I cannot. But reading this here it is clear: You are the poem writing me.” — Kamand Kojouri
Try as I might,
I can't write
you—it’s like
nailing sunlight
onto this white
page. I cannot,
for you are a dream
of yourself. You
who is my beginning
and my destination, even
my path is You.
This is Love.
But what is love? A silent
four-letter word,
when the music
of the entire language is You.
You see beyond me,
and into my possibilities.
But all my possibilities lead
to You.
For it was written that I
would love you,
that it'd be your destiny
to greet me. That You
would be my destiny,
and the rememberers
will utter my poems
only because
I loved
You.
Try as I might,
I can’t write
you—it’s like
nailing sunlight
onto this white
page. I cannot.
But reading this here
it is clear:
You are the poem
writing me.