Of Metaphors and Hyperbole

If you grow tired of being in my senses,
wear a blanket when you go around.
But then, I will write about false ghosts
as if it were Halloween all over again
when your witch's diguise was unravelled
by your white sandals.

I know that you have not enchanted me
as I craft these verses of my own free will,
just as it was when I took myself to His house
knowing that I wouldn't burst into flame.

Love was the message.

There is no spell to be broken here,
no evil spirits to be exorcised in the Lord's name,
no reason for saving as salvation had been earned
in spite of my erstwhile poor use of metaphors.

If you grow tired of being in my senses,
hide in the back of others who also pull
words out of the air for a living.
But then, I will lament your absence
as I have when I first thought of you
as my ray of Friday sunshine

because when you weren't there,
the spaces were all but remnants of
a terrible typhoon; when one realises
the fortune of having summertime
despite this hyperbolic heat.

Love will always be the message
and it will persist long after
I have stopped writing.