Art.

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To be love.

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Fancy.

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He moves out and about
and his hands find my belly
I know he’s got a bad dream.

Holding me as if he’s falling
off the bed, in his sleep.
His fingers move forth
and find my kohl lined eyes
only to touch and feel
those lashes flutter on his palm
like the candles on the nightstand.

“Let her touch my heart,
after i fall off to death
and see her get me my breath back.”

He murmured. I giggled.
Forever, the poem to this poet.

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Afraid of time.

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Ojhal

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Almost when it feels
that the heart is healing
as i put the turmeric paste
all over it, the plate slips.

It slips off my hand.
Seconds later, I feel immense pain
the pain each vein in my body
was slowly overcoming.

Like an open organ surgery
i see through. Little by little
moving each muscle,
each tissue, each layer i stitched
after all these years of tearing apart.

~
As it rains tonight,
all of it is hurting again.
Like you, like the wounds i sew.

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You bring me home.

One, that's ours.
The silver plate
that says our names in roman.
Those letters glitter at us,
every pink moon night
returning back from work.
Moving with the pace
we tend to forget
how it sparkles your eyes
looking into mine
as we hold each other close
and hear those heartbeats
each saying we made it.

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