It is at moments after I have dreamed of dulcet sighs that accompany the unadulterated appearance of your smile, that I gladly drown— nothing is better than luscious lips that offer respite to a heart that’s parched like a desert without shade and when a mind is dry stumbling in pursuits (I am unable to thwart this feeling) Such a state is mine, your eyes are viridian, dark with desire with a golden halo around the pupil that only seems warmer in certain circumstances– they give life to my poetic verses. And I lie here listening to you breathe my name, I wonder if you realize what it feels like to ache this way? Distance is terrifying— amaranth lipstick marks on coffee mug emphasizes this; it is at moments after I have dreamed that I could write poem after poem about wanting you, but you know because you have already read them. I await the arrival of Summer rain.
Moodily, the crepe crescent appears in the sky perhaps it seeks validation– this moment that holds significance as I gaze overhead, it’s been a while. I loved you first: but afterwards your love outshone mine,
gifting in return songs of innocence
and experience. There are days when I picture your face amid the clouds knowing well the blossoms shake themselves off the tree where your scent has touched them. With the dust of sleep upon my eyes I wake, gentle tremors reverberate under sheets with subtle anguish; it defies reason, greyish-blue reflection of sky with bits of moss press urgently into my hand as though urging me to align my breath with yours— allow me to touch you, ever so lightly your lips hold the universe in their frame; without you, the world at large is a hieroglyph corridor, incomprehensible.
I prefer the heavy drape of velvet; turning, transforming into new shades and permeating from where it was once touched—a conclusion of sorts. We speak in tongues as the moon slowly disintegrates into cloud, you breathe me in and I fill your lungs; perhaps this is the real secret of alchemy? What is hidden and what is no longer concealed
remains a mystery— I allow familiarity to fall in folds, like a landscape
painted peaceful and still; why then the need of ribaldry? I am dampened by the passing rain, witness
to a world that’s doubly edged. With my whole body, I taste adherence,
no almond milk in comparison tastes sweeter— there is a reason
my poetry is written down, words these words are what lips to you cannot possibly utter; let them remain behind the drapes, I observe many things.
Lie to me; with a smiling mouth or pleading, for even roses have no trouble, whatsoever, distinguishing between— I am worth reading, my dark irises lambent with budding of days to come; purely theoretical. A landscape of bruises and hurt was once my domain, where I sat unable to discern the dubious murmur of red alchemy, empty tears, and implacable sweetness of tales which sought to degrade deeper truth—can you still trap me? Come, let your steps be slower, the white in the milk moon
bears witness to. A sickle or a scythe, as the light hits the ocean and aqua blue prepares to move in and construct the atmosphere; lie to me.
As I allowed the water to run over my hair, my gaze fell upon the bit of sky through the severed blue curtain; restless for a taste of purity. Perhaps being broken is just an illusion, though truly the ache attached strikes me as I write this— like flowers, like the shift in formation of clouds; are we beyond repair? And if the light from the twilight sun shines through the cracks of things, could it be that we are overlooking the possibility of it being fixed? Is it a myth? The curtain dances with the burst of wind that enters, either we open ourselves to new perspectives or perceive only what is visible to the naked eye— I focus on the slopes brightly illuminated with almond blossoms, my nocturnal heart adamant to be itself no matter how hard the state of affairs sting— broken never existed to begin with.