The Untitled.

To look you in the face, to see my smile on your lips, to burn, to covet, to pine and die; I feel you in the wet alleys of myskin. There’s a boy downstairs; with polka dot freckles, he sings me to sleep and says I smell of your dreams. Blue-grey, scissor-paper dreams; stuck on nursery scrapbooks.

To taste you in the air, to worship you like the moon, to melt, to seethe, to dissolve and die; I feel you in the moist palms of my destiny. You linger like smoke in my memories; alive and ancient; dense and dark. Thus, you emerge, from wisdom’s tragic ruin; blessed and anew. All at once, you become the disease and the cure.

Do you remember? When nights came cascading down the hills, twisting and writhing, petulant like a child stopped from mischief for too long; I hid behind you. And a pebble, round, smooth, made of sifted silk-flour; slipped in your throat. I loved you then, like stars on my lap and roses dipped in ink.

The things you brought me; my childhood, a broken wand and a handful of dirt. On a toy-shelf, between your plastic cars and your plastic soldiers, I lived; I belonged to you. Happily, I scooped out my heart; set it out on the road to Neverland; and then suddenly you grew up. But I still follow you; in autumn colors; in bamboo breeze; in the droopy branches of dusk; as days cease to be.

Posted By

Swati.

It's all about the Copy, honey.