And if I made philosophy rings

And strung them all over my fingers

If I tore a page from their books

And twisted them into barely wearable jewellery

Would the metaphors be enough

To make you read me like you read them?

If I walked by as I spoke

Lines of poetry

You considered to be unpretentious

Would I be beautiful enough for you to see?

If I made up words

That rhymed but only in that third plane of existence only you and I could exist in

Would you love me like you loved these un-existing words?

If I made it rain philosophy

And the clouds were Kierkegaard

Would I be enough?

If I strung along metaphors like you string me along

And I wore them every Tuesday

(I'll rebel for you, honey, I’ll even wear my evening gowns in the morning)

If my voice were as drawling as you desire when I recite poetry that I've written in a bout of intellectualness

would I be the enigma you desire me to be?

I'll ask rhetorical questions that I already know the answers to

Because that's the kind of poetry

You like to read.

But because you revel in rebelliousness,

I'll end my soliloquy with the most pretentious and questionable word of them all, a metaphor, that exists and doesn't exist all at once, that won't reply to your texts at 3 am, they're too busy writing some of that poetry you so desire-

Know one

-Tanishka Iyer