The coffee shades of his erratic mood
drives me to his soul-
the one which he claims to be,
Unconcerned of my existence
Un-loved, un-lived, never narrated.
The paper cuts on his body
from those ionized lights
makes me want to touch the wounds-
the ones he has carefully concealed.
I tell him my story and he senses wickedness,
shuts me up with his gentle reproaching
and confess to me his pending notions.
He is red and warm and pure
close to my sick heart,
heating its nerves, like his fidgety electrons
find their partners and collide.
I wish his warmth reserves itself for me,
leave behind the game of perceptions
String up a meeting for just two of us
sometime in the myriad of destiny,
If there is one
and if it approves us of our apprehensive souls.
The way he turns himself towards me,
the commotion of my veins stirs up the dream
I want him to fly and laugh with me
and probably embrace me
But only in my purest form,
Only in our clear skies.
I can sit and smile at him
And he shall keep on declining my orchids
I told him, I like them,He says, you like me more.