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.
you are most beautiful
when you sleep–
when the coffee-toned notes of your skin
brew, a silent language
while your perfect lips are too tired to doubt my eyes
now, the dark mist of your breath
trickles down my neck
I stare at you
outside there is a trail of rain,
and the wind
in the willow cage
as if it dares to tell
the moon and
all the listening night
that this silverlight should not
touch you, in front of me.
To write about you,
Is it to dream about a song.
The humming of your voice
Is a symphony sometimes.
Do you see my heart dancing
In all the flames you set within me?
Do you feel the warmth that brews
within me, as the echo of your voice
slithers into my soul.
If you are the music,
then teach me to dance,
alone, unapologetically, forever.
for there is no ground beneath the toes today.
The white verandah delves a sight
as you move untouched eclipsed by warm fingertips.
the water shall soon forget itself,
it has no memory of your existence.
White voids and bright wine.
melanchony’s cocktail : a melodious blur
beneath a bright but dusty chandelier,
We have nothing to break
our silence escaped through the white windows.
listening to the winds
and sipping some wine,
our exits from one-another,
our exits from ourselves,
our exits from our pasts.
The unknown are felt,
With hands moving inside,
Feeling the black bra, while
your face turns red with joy of ecstacy.
Everything turns to water, your lips below
turn into a fountain of desire,
and your legs closing with wetness.
Waiting to be touched
Waiting to be consumed
Waiting to be felt
It has been a long time since I have penned down something quite originial in this blog. There has been a lot of thoughts that have been going through my head seeing this world change. There is an uneasiness as to how things are unfolding, I have started my shift from poetry to non-fiction writings. Now I am trying my best to craft them into comprehensible and readable thoughts worth pondering upon. Its time to relapse to writing again. Time to end the drought.
Meanwhile here is the picture of some recently brought books.
the moss by the window grows up
presumptuous contentment ferments itself.
This air is magically much lighter today
I remember this forgotten dream
where each rain drop
becomes a spiraling sigh of someone I knew.
Searching for my heart,
I scramble in linen white bedsheets,
my eyes rummage the room for a mirror
for this face must be a void :
an artist’s regretful hallucination
a dreamer’s revered loss.
We smile the best,
when the mind’s eye forgets the face.
I should settle for a second slumber
to grin like a Cheshire cat,
the sky turns murderous grey
a lovely occasion? Isn’t it?