To hold a man like he is your second skin is the most sacred form of spirituality.

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Am surrounded
by storms, hurricanes, tornadoes.
Ground beneath me
heaves a million volcanic sighs.

I sit cross legged
amidst it all
like my beloved Buddha,
completely withdrawn and nonchalant.

But my dear,
Please note.

As I breathe do you know it is
the fury am bottling up
in the depths of my womb.
To unleash when am at my best.

Until then,
my worst shall destroy my nerves
with its venom that spreads
its fangs on my very existence.

-

A flowing river through valleys, turfs, him, her, them.
Eternally running away from love to be perpetually in love.
Words is what I breath. Trying to write what otherwise would become painful lump in my throat.
A social rustic.
Oh wait! Maybe "I am nobody" or a fragment of your imagination. Maybe I am you.
Maybe "I don't exist".

~ Jv

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He carries his grief like a souvenir, albatross around his neck, a trophy, like all those words he never said, the way he unloved me.

-

I loved him as a man has to be loved.
That's all. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It was enough for us to survive this life.....
......to keep our flames burning
beyond human understanding,
what connected us was the horizon
we gazed upon.
Knowing we loved each other enough.
Just enough.

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