Why

Can the air above the river feel it breeze away?
The silent touch, that leaves it a part of its love.
The part which would redefine it.
Its no longer the dry, sundry air,
Its been touched. It has a swagger of the teenager in love, of the sunflower's glow in the spring.
Its purpose has changed.
Yet, the river flows unchanged.
No, its not the ignorance nor is it the haughty one.
There is a whirlpool inside which the air can't touch.
"You can take in the rocks but not me?", asks the sir, kissing the river.
"Yes. As they stay un moved with the whirlpool in me. But you get lost and don't hold me."
"I am water and yet there is fire when you touch me but what a pity that as grand as you are, you can't ever hold me."

As I write this, I realize how similar you and I are to them.
Such shivering closeness and yet I feel this heat.
Your eyes wander on my face and search my eyes for the reflection of my feelings.
It is the intensity of it that burns my soul.
I want to give myself up and yet I know I'll fall unwanted through a sieve.