fiction and poetry

Dream

A memory of your smell :
an enslavement, so clandestine.
It tunes my arteries to sing,
like the waves do
for purposes unknown.

I ebb away from this nonchalant madness
and turn into a moon-kissed star dust.

I now abhor the lick of light.
It separates us unknowingly.
The dominions of our touch has fallen,
This city of love has no survivors,

Just bottles of unopened whiskeys and fresh roses,looming over this graveyard of our new birth.

SB

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