This heart, dosed on Chopin and Bach
Traces your voice, a subtle echo even , somehow,
What is silence to a room full of devoted hearts
waiting to bloom,
I know : ones without an unforgivable autumn
will wait and wait
my love, I seek a way out
to you and your summer.
In the end, the tress
Drizzle and disappear,
There is no night in this summer
someone spilled the sky’s heart red.
To write about you,
is to write about me,
my heart is so shared with you,
like this weather of summer
discomforting but teasing.
I wake up everyday and wait,
for your messages
despite the time difference that separates us:
This distance is a number,
I tell my dilapidated eyes.
My vocal cord disagrees counting them.
Your brown cat eyes, full of distant memories pulls me up
in our cloudy sunshine,
what else do I want, than be next to you
somehow, somewhere.
To read some books, sip some lemonade.
|not because a million other people feel the same
but because you picked me up sometime,
somehow like a rare book in a bookstore, without a pause.
I was readable somehow.
I was interesting.
I have to be a collectible,
the one you take with you,
to sleep in those cold, gloomy afternoons.
Again and again and again,}
till you forget about your library.
SB
Yesterday I thought of you
And the yesterday before
It seems as if my yesterdays
Are full of nothing more.
It is not only yesterdays
of which you’ve entered in
For tomorrow is soon to come
Where more thoughts of you begin
to never end, dissolve or disappear.
This is my beautiful paradox.
My prison without keys
My evening without the sun
My heart without memory
For you are always there.
SB
I tried talking but somehow couldn’t
I waited but it was not worthwhile.
How can I make you a moment,
and disappear forever
You stay and exist as a glass,
beautiful and untouchable ,
Even In my house of touches.
I am not the winter that dies,
Not the summer that is unbearable,
I am the moon,
I work on the tides.
Shall we dive once?
As you promised.
I need you in waves,
To drift wherever you want.
Just once again.
Your hair floats
as a messy dark forest in wind,
Curled up like a serpent in a river
The eyes are chalices of sparkling wine
With lips drenched in deep untouched unknown colors.
A smile withers from you,
Tempting everyone bit by bit,
The neck is sculpted with intricate flesh,
an arch of collarbone is an icing on this cake
with a smell that can make you forget memories.
The curve moves its own way
Like breeze over rain
The bottoms round and soft
comforted within
the desirous coloring inners
thighs are melodies of your movement
with fair and soft toes
moving at the helm of tempting back.
The pink wet lips, drown my eyes, as my hands trace its origin slowly to your chin, tempting its way to below within the warm black dress
The bra unhooks from behind as my lips move ahead from your back to the shoulders and neck,
Close your eyes now and feel the touches in motion
The collar bone is a mellow beauty
held by infallible black straps of the unknown
that leads to softer dominions of flesh below.
Your smile above is etched in the eye,
But my hands forget those after
The lips are poignant and colorless,
That tempts the tongue to unthinkable pursuits,
The curve slips off like a fine bottle of sun kissed glass.
The breasts and waist are sculpted of desires
draped in black
An ice cube would melt and jump off the way
Of your curves, kindled by your wamth.
Just think, what it would to my words,
When they touch your lips.
Brewing temptation in my ink.
The unbuttoning continues,
The eyes are not shy of the sun now,
But of my eyes teasing every glance of your flesh,
The cleavage is an abyss molded within the bra
I trespaas them to the soft breasts held firmly within it.
Don’t whisper now, just moan.
Tell my fingers where to move now,
Should i unhook the way your eyes tell me to.
The sky is gray
A continuous shade
I bask in its glory.
The mud turns to clay
A storm is in play
But it never comes.
Each day stays the same
I don’t have to change
A stagnating story.
Your picture is still there,
a lip balm disappears.
Some memory of yours , still undone.
The sky is gray
I love this cliché
I’m comfortably numb.
Writings to Heaven 