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

-Caption-

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

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Look, apologies are hard. It’s a discomfort like the sneeze that’s dying to make that ugly sound from within your throat. And apologies are beautiful. Like the rebuilt bird house after the uproar.

//please read in caption//

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The passion was burning..
Burning everything else,
inside and out..
Charring the hearts,
all that cared..
The passion was
overwhelming..
Creating illusionary
warnings in mid air..
Making up, over burnt
out flames of ecstasy..
Slowly.. Still burning..

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If the world was black
and white, we would
be living in extremes..
Imagine never being able
to see the blush creeping
up on a beautiful face
or gazing into beautiful
blue eyes, like an endless
ocean caught in a raging storm..
Imagine never witnessing the spectacular sunset in that
serene orange and and
never be holding the
green grass beneath your
feet amidst the woods..
The world wouldn't be truly beautiful, with just black
and whites adorning
each wall...
Neither would our lives..
Would it?

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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?  

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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-

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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//

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- 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.

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