I took the plunge into your sea.
Oh, you know what?
I am now hooked forever
on its colourless colour.

******* out a cloud-bubble.
Black or white, it doesn’t matter.
Sprinkle some drops
in your pious colourless style.
Watch, it shines and sizzles
in renewed hues
across the land and over the blooms.
Still, in the end, remains a potion,
an intact drop:
The untouched ocean down the moon!

This morning, the world woke up without me.
Daylight crested above the trees, where bird-songs filled the crisp winter air and squirrels began scurrying through frost-bitten yards.
                                                          ­                                Neighbors went about their day, putting children on school buses before bustling themselves to work. The mailman came and left, dropping off packages filled with useless purchases and magazine subscriptions that sit piled in corners, gathering dust.
Hallways filled with swarms of students eager for the final bell. Lockers slammed and classroom seats filled, my desk being the only one left empty
                                                           ­                               (second row from the front, farthest to the right or left, whichever was opposite of the door. Perfect view of the clock, the whiteboard, the teacher, and everyone who entered and exited the room.)
Emails went unanswered, books left unfinished, my room left untouched... a thin layer of dust began to collect atop my existence that went unnoticed.
                                                      ­                                  
Unnoticed by them, unnoticed by you.

My temple is now tainted
With pretty white roses and a new fragrance
Don’t worry dear,
It will be gone soon

Isn’t it funny how black and white it was?
And now with the sunrise comes gray foggy mornings
Holding your breath as you hold in your stories
And immediately let them spill out

Suppose it were a key to the new you
Or I am just finally free of myself?
You still miss the white roses
But you won’t say that anymore

Darkened grime has not spread across my body
Soot-covered fingerprints have not traced the lines in my skin
Poisonous words have not crawled into my veins
My brain has yet to be compromised by this chemical cocktail

Untouched
Is my soul’s home
She is reserved with brick walls and number codes
She sends a warning with guard dogs tall and strong
But behind the closed iron doors
Is her white room

Scared to spill
But wanting to throw paint after taking off plastic covers
Wanting to ruin
But not wanting the hurt
Wanting the touch
But not the pain
And yet
A masterpiece could be waiting

Untouched
Yes, I am untouched
Museum-grade red ropes
Look, don’t come close
And, at this rate,
I don’t know when I’ll be ready
To let go