Your beautiful words spread like

Chanel Number Five.

The few syllables I utter, fall flat and nowhere close to the Famous Five.

When you speak, it is perfection, a clear five by five.

When I utter, it is nonsense, just empty boloney five.

You are love’s very essence, where tender feelings strive

I am not even the starting point, maybe just one divided by five.

You are Rumi’s verse, Each line a treasure fine,

Me, a senseless cacophony, times five.

You may be everything but for Prachi,

you aren’t Chanel Number Five!