i am white & floaty like clouds.
thick sheets of molasses.
Old lavender strings hanging on my chest.
i am a convex memory of wax.
flashback of old days speak to me,
like vintage numbers,
vintage walls & laughters.
i have a thing with people.
i mark and eat them along with the spaces.
completely. Bones. ashes. all in me,
as i create my nausea myself
dripping down my red lips.
i create and dissolve.
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.
between the lampshade of lips and my porcelain lips i carry your honeycombed shadow like a lust covered body, screaming in rose love i have a reason to lick your face, your breaths in ways flickering Beneath the mole of my chin, a night rests it slithers a square black fit like an earthquake, an earthquake Metaphors of sun and moon lies in my womb, my place of sanity inside me choking with your love a surreal slip of owls & hunters clambering unearthed lilies You are blue. You are grey. You are colourless. Mine. i have a reason or two to bite your pages, the books of love Phantom protrusion of amnesia. Pills of intoxication Bay of Bengal splashing my bosom drop by drop, with chills neurotic A wasp breaths and moans slitting a thread. I have my reasons, darling to love you. Ambrosia twirls like a cocktail thick mouth swarming of dreams, filling the cracks, the walls, the ceilings, the mouth the feverish body. I have a thousand reasons darling to love you now.
I am a forgotten memory
with a quiet mouth of a clock( a chain that clogs my neck)
a forgotten yellow tainted page, blank as an ocean.
These people i see, i smile at my own hands,
my own chin, my deep purple intense eye(i know it has an intense shape of a flower)
softly listening all songs
swallowing the delusional veins and freckles of my hands,
i know i am a memory.
forgotten like vintage telephones, crooked voices
90’s soft love collecting silver dust from mouth to mouth,
movement of the breeze, a song of nostalgia.
Sepia. Broken pencils. Vintage poetry.
forgotten like that.
,©Image an Words MVS