the nights during winter are bizarre,
you see everything naked,
the whirring sound as a backdrop
of things never seen,
the morbid, lifeless bed sheets screaming your voice
the broken knob from my gas stove, still clicking.
yellow segments coming off from my wall,
and i hear it all, like never before
a silk in my hand,
there is this couple, moaning next room,
and i absorb it like an art,
lying on my empty anaemic sofa,
I observe my black nail paint chipped yet gleaming somehow
eyes as heavy as thick air,
wrestling for vacuum in outh of tunnels
i think of breeze in autumn,
petrichor entering my womb
i think of anything but winters,
they slice a sickening trauma onto my bosom,
it’s quiet everywhere,
a spot in my iris, stubborn as a stain.
i can prick nakedness like a shadow.
gulping it, watching it till i die of this emptiness.
i understand that feeling of leaking.
an untold truth from your orange laps,
You breathe deeply, like a concave mirror dropping in shreds.
You wish to be gentle, to be soft.
A smouldering aroma that sits quietly on the bosom, nonchalantly.
I understand the pain and the peeling of throats past evening,
You force a dry smile, day after day on your smitten wrinkled face.
I understand how the walls of your lobby appeared,
lost in ignorance,
where people walked in and they left without a souvenir.
You have many branches, girl
smoke on an ashtray, burning still.
You can feel the hollowness of Earth.
the languid smell it holds, it carries us,
we the dead morbid souls.
I understand that lisp in your backbone,
your words burning inside like a leaf dying,
A point of everything comes for everything.
Accept it, girl, you are the voice.
Watch the sunset, you can swallow it all.
you would burn in waters,
if you could feel my skin now.
smudged dose of love, insipid flaky fingers
this arm hurts now from resurrecting my soul,
streams of rivers lynching my soft neck.
i long for love and loneliness altogether
cleaved moon dripping honey on pale skin.
you kept me breaking, like twings and forests.
sliced ounce of crooked lemon zest, burning.
it kept me hurting yet alive, you see.
i could feel the faulty facets
leaking sideways of my languid arms.
topsy turvy my tongue, this moment.
i am moth, sucking glaze from marigold,
camouflaging dust & bitter taste of you, perhaps.
this is me, this is survival now.
swallowing all that I see.
perhaps i got caught between your silk fingers,
gently throwing the vomit away,
petals of lips brushing away,
swaying like thunders.
perhaps, i slipped into you
before spring could collapse on my belly,
time sticks too many collection.
i am bloodlust,
caffeine on the stove, incensed.
expanding like perforated sky
only to melt like never before.
a stretch of copper sky,
hips full of smoke & nostalgia.
perhaps i loved you way too much.
give me a moment erupting like shreds of golden mirror,
honey dripped touch,
mouths swallowing a sweet lie of ours.
something like that, but real.
you sit on my corrosive neck and feel the black void spot,
i have bones made of bone-china and a little neck to proceed.
i stand and look for you in aberrant currents,
i split daylight across your arms.
to know the layers of your skin & words
i perform rituals day after day.
A windswept memory tucked between your lips.
a grey memory folded like velvet curtains.
i imagine you in a surrealistic way.
A song to hum, to ingest the threads of madness.
i think of you in moments of cacophony that stich my ears with a soft noise of you.
i want to grow like trees and shrubs,
with my soft lids still on,
pages rustle my thick blood often,
a sound to hum
i want to take everything in at once,
moisture, dry breeze slapping my jaws
everything like sleeping beauty.
thick sheets of frozen memories are bizzare,
i know it. i understand.
still i want to swallow and eat it raw,
this moon so bright,
this sun so dark,
it burns often.
The forest was never the surreal thing.
it was the precarious noise of falling leaves,
scars left behind in the woods.
uncluttered weight of brightness.
and i grew like a moth amidst this silence.
with words cluttered.
pale moonlight rumbling the laws of detachment.
i have sniffed loneliness like no one ever did
i am the writer, the melancholy soul aches a pain.
a pain artistic like dust on my desk.
cob webs mind game. Pleasure in pain.
a starlight stuck to my mind,
to my elongated staircase neck,
atom meeting atom.
a whirlpool of petals and memories,
clasped between my chin,
a thin map stitched there.
the map of insanity,
a doused eye of temperature unstable,
a tenuous, watery limpid eye.
it sees autumn, winters and spring
like nothing mattered at all.
i can slurp stars out from the sky
garnishing your surreal body,
where my lips stick to your moist words.
A refined way of picking your name.
Coltish your patterns give me jolts, often.
you have mirror- mosaic eye,
one’s that make your body numb.
A piquant chisel touch, maybe.
A lampshade residing beneath our bedsheet,
capturing our love,
observing our total madness.
we decide our own insane galaxy, love
Branches of sky
uttering words of roar,
it gives a mirage of October
A swamp of shining fingers,
saying poetry in love.
I have a strange connection to poetry,
it kills and speaks to me,
unlike you and your methods.
A death star, on repeat.
And I celebrate my October,
doused in the bowl of slippery nights.