It’s like a sad part of my levitating body.
My fingers have a soft tendency to nurture, to sense pain.
and I sit on the lonely roads to pick up a saddened heart, to heal it.
sometimes, I have a feeling I am solid.
Solid like a vintage door, unbreakable.
Imperishable, who can swallow darkness inside darkness?
So, I produce light out of darkness.
I act like a mother to him, as well.
With clearwing moth like a skin of his,
sewing the gasps and sighs.
His body is made of a fallen moon, I believe so.
And at times, I am confused with the methods of love.
He is a rotating axis on my forehead.
he has leaked, the times I was leaking too.
And I kept quiet and sewed him again and again.
Like a silent prayer of pure holistic clouds.
my clavicle stuttering with the omen of noises.
Nothing is a flattened lie, but a departure.
My eyes are anxious now, to capture your lilting lips.
I watch you as you get healed now,
as I protect you now. You are now an absent face of simmering smiles of the sky.
“That stale air you think of
is heaviness surrounding the numb teeth.”
It’s dark, It’s the night.
we slumber with mouths open trying to please.
trying to pick lotus with our heavy lips.
I stare into this earth which holds me like a baby,
and then the flashback of pills and heartaches.
that moment of a swiveled cloud of tears.
It’s done now, Circling around life needs a solid heart, a solid tongue to lick, lick, the translucent powder of fever.
During the nights of summer, I found a bowl of romance, lust in your sinking eyes. So much I read from it. I collected all my wisdom to read your bizarre words. I disclosed a few readings, read your dying cold murmurings like the lost dandelions in a silent winter night. You are a gargantuan lyric of unsaid phrase. So much to draw from you, so much to read from you. You are the Art of survival.
In the occurrence of solitude, first, this sunshine broke, telling your unfathomable lost emotions. I heard you still survived with a potion and lotion of memories. The concoction of sweet lips and the nectar is always as chilling as the moist air.
We regenerate from each another, sucking sagacious chants, drawing a pool of concave oblivion laughter. Oh, the touches of laughter you had with the dawn and rains in your lap. I knew you were healing steadily, like the owl lost in its precarious world.
You are as liquid as wax, undefined and countless ways of colours you produce each day. Beatific laurels of splashes of lanterns reside in your auburn smiles. I know, you are a masterpiece.