with our bodies colliding this night sings a song of petunia, a soft spring blooming behind our feet. A velvet yawn of a quiet afternoon.
The night is a tiny flower thumping against the sun-kissed breaths a hum of summer, a hum of winter.
The mouth dipped in the greasy elbows, a pathway to the flowering petals. Silver droplets of water, the body shrinks like a caterpillar now, sparkles of the rain, Too many screams now, too many abstract bodily postures.
This night delivers a tangled knot of whispers of leaves, like salt, the whispers rubbing our elbows, quietly. Hushed. A season of moist talks.
Romancing with winter involves more than seduction to its frosty night. There is a pit darker inside the walls of a colossal ball of shadow. A shadow where skins of lost soul bloom. A pool of infinite kisses. The chills of silent lustrous night expand in the most imposing manner, like the feathers of peacock romancing with the rain.
The icing on the cherry-trees, the dew of the moon stuck to my window panes that resemble my naked face. Oh, I am beautiful.
Emancipation from the shallow hollows of palm, I see patterns of sweet nectar dripping from the sky, drip by drip, onto my cheekbones and I am a lyric once again.
The full moon shares its forlorn stories to my healing lips. I am a partner in solitude and war. It teaches me the art of sustenance—flourishing like the wild sunflower. The touches of laughter of the newly born, the spiritual talks of the old ladies, dedicate me more to the flowers of Winter.
I emerge from the last rains and beneath the elasticity of murmurs, I inhale potions of infinite joy.