And you laugh so gentle, we untie fervently all the knots that made up the distance.

-Caption-

-

What are the odds of  your being so oblivious to a void that it completes you? 

What are the odds of your existence being a fascinating step of unmutilated fantasy?

What are the odds of the stars showering you with the graceful shine with hideous inconspicuousy?

What are the odds that you are supposed to be overtly emotional on drenched afternoons with chilly gusts hovering around you?  

-

Words.
They’ve been the length and breadth of us – the smiles merged and the tears swept away. Have you ever wondered how it’d be if humans never realised their tongues were made for more than to scream accomplishments over a dead deer? We’d still find ourselves today. We’d still paint rain because you love rain.

-Caption-

-

with seven thousand
chants of colours -
one off every hidden surface
of enamel on your teeth.

-

the life line,
the line that rings in my lover,
the line that holds a currency in silk threads, the line that narrates a wind gasp from the far west.

//caption//

-

- too afraid to touch the shore,
mark its title on a finish line.
The poem drags itself back to the
core, and laps up to the sand again
just so you can play your game of
crisp touch on it's fluid edge.

The poem calls itself a gentle
uprising inside your very throat.
It gurgles out the sunshine like the
ocean foams up in joy at the sand's
feet.

-

/Things I didn't know I loved/

I grin, with my teeth exposed instead of gritting them. I sparkle in laughter, with the sunrays lending honey to the empty space that has dust dancing inside it, like my laughter holds it in place with puppet-strings.

(Caption)

-

Tomorrow Deserves to be Young.

A poem on loving.

-

Sometimes the love is harsh, it's the sun's love.
But I'd rather wave my arms a little more mellow, look the giver in the eye, than to droop my eyes down lower to the ground. Sweet sweet mother earth, she holds me and yet I must pay my homage to the colour I see on my skin.


/caption/

-

In a hidden corner of the universe, the sound of a snail moving and moving away is still distinct, as if time really did it the honour of standing still and the dew drop decided to lie down gentler than usual, on the big leaf you caress.

/caption/

-