And there she stood waiting for the blizzard to enter her and freeze all the little moments running as blood cells between the bones and the skin. She stood with her arms wide open against the high winds shaking the sun behind the clouds, glimmering through the cracks almost questioning if the warmth could visit her ever again. Her fingertips were turning blue and skin had murals of time etched like a world map. She was strong in head and brave in the heart, unfazed and unwavering flambeau guiding the winds to her soul. That's only how she knew she could save the keeper in her and the believer in him. That's only how!
As if the stardusts were generously laid under my feet, and I heedlessly slip past the day, ramming into the door of night; floating a foot over the ground, clenching my teeth and stretching my arms to find a balance in my body; a body that's tirelessly fighting to go with the gleaming flow, much like a broke gambler willing to place bets on any odds of winning; much like a powerless tippler giving in to a quarter peg left by a stranger in the bar; Much like a fiddler running fingers through the puffs of an undying cigar.
Maybe I was written a little far along in a story fated to eat dust on your mahogany bookshelf - The one you keep for all the books you'd never lend. The one you turn to when you know no other way for your heart to mend.
I wore my ghost on Sunday; the night we partied in ombre lights and tasted a glassful of tinsel by the gold and bold. We nibbled some cake behind the gate and rested under the dim of stars; Soon after, the crickets sang ballad of an old-fashioned tea - exactly when we decided to empty the space That's where I left my ghost to stay until we rave again.
Let's steal words that we never said and make them into a mixtape; words that blended into the dusk and spread its creeping roots farther than we could ask. A pot of low-key laughter and untold complaints, some oddly satisfying coffee cloud that blurred your face. I remember you winced at the headlights honking our way; but never missed to stop by at that mingling, jingling fiddler's play. How you loved was not like mine for I have learnt to let in hard way. May be where you lived, loving was sold free all through the day.
You and I are ebbing; and so is the sky that grew from us. The makeshift sun is slipping along the edge of your neck to reach our dancing feet; there we celebrate this living one last time.
You and I are ebbing, and your nonchalant eyes kiss mine from distance. For our skin is forbidden - often thought to have embodied callous indifference to suffering.
So here I pack all the dust and mist before we finally cut loose; as that's what we shall reduce to when we tramp down the fallen sun under our feet.
Like the dank moss you grow on the rocks, along the rivers and the fallen logs, the tree barks escaping the sunny spots, alluring weeds from the earthen pots.
Like the dank moss, you grow on the rocks; pounding in hearts like a cotton knot, albeit believed a futile cause, you're the cinnamon in their fireball shots.
who knows all the roads that meet your heart. Like a medieval atlas with boundaries, and alleys, and ruins, and valleys - they flow like a warm gush of river through your veins. They carry your world on their shoulders - tirelessly; even when you're lost and stranded, they come to find you. They sail oceans to discover that one place from where the light enters you; And are not afraid to tour your hideous, dark cities either.
a confidante who knows all the secrets; One, that whispers stories into the ears we need to hear time and again. One, that whistles them aloud to the world, lapping the miles like a train.
I had heard a song of a summer where the squirrels visited the patios and nibbled on squash and bean; Where they spent mostly on a giant hammock and sealed the sun under their skin.
Often do I spill my nectar like a bee enchanted by a rare bloom sighing heavily under a tree; Here's how I long for a bygone yesterday that never could make its way to me.