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.
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.