Your story is written in a book
with no title on the cover.
How was I supposed to
understand your genre?

When I tried to read you,
you did not let me
go beyond the prologue
which apparently
had no connection
to any of the chapters.

-

Did they escape their city's parched pavements,
to perish on flower beds, they only came to admire?
Here lies a pawn's broken neck under an enemy king's foot.

-

Face of an angel,
soul of an altruist,
eye sight of an eagle,
memory of an elephant,
mind of a researcher,
wrapped with
the strings of
noble intentions.
She is a gift box
within which
perfection and
destruction are
tied together
in a
combustible
embrace.

-

Saccharine mountain air, briny sea winds or moist forest tree roofs,
each of them with an exquisite story of survival and resurrection,
turning my entire being to a melody that needs no deciphering.

-

The distance
between
your return
and
my departure
can be measured
in three days of
uncomfortable silence.

-

She used to believe,
all smiles are
equally beautiful until
she witnessed his.

The significance of
a smile does have a
unequivocal relation
to the one who wears it.

-

the advice of playing hard to get.
Connection is not a game,
conversations are not records,
life's nuances are not calculations,
silence does not lead to conversion.
With every step back,
there is a possibility
of everyone else turning their back.

-

Sundried aromas fill the air,
twillight craftily procrastinates,
moon's drapes - a golden affair,
as draught abates.

-

You beside her,
holding hands
that aren't mine.

-

a dream that was
built with the bricks
of contemplation.
You cannot build a
memory from
singular conversations.
You cannot detest
a fallacy about
the fictitious.
Ironically, the remedies,
we often seek are
for invisble scars
from overcompensation.

-