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  Jan 11 Asyan
PorcelainTears
everything sets at the window

like; drips of moon ink,
the lingered scent of a summer's day

the pleasure of a romantic moment
our smiles, wet with rain
the song of— time in the bottle

PorcelainTears [Anna-Maria]
November 12, 2020
  Sep 2020 Asyan
John Wiley
The old church was a wreck,
just bush timbers
and lime washed bags
with a few sheets of iron on the roof.

The only person
we ever saw there
was a drunk
with delirium tremens.

Karaknya and I
went there one day,
cut a mark on our thighs
with some broken bottle,
exchanged blood
and rubbed in red desert dust
up above where it would be seen –
our secret.

The mark has faded
over the years
but is still there.

Our lives
took us different ways,
to different places
and we lost each other.

I had always meant
to renew the friendship
some day – sometime,
but somehow never did,
even after I found where Karaknya was.

Perhaps I was afraid of what I might find
or just unwilling to take the risk.

Whatever,
Karaknya has gone now.
Just the scar
and the memory
remain.
  Sep 2020 Asyan
Deniz Demiriz
My hands miss the rain
and the pitter patter of hail
December and all it brings
and freckles that don’t wash out.

They miss the dim yellow light
that shone through your teeth
that made them into thieves
filling them with blood
that stole my pulse.

And your eyes like wine
that brought the stars upon them.

My hands can’t think straight anymore
they fumble and cry.
Fingernails bleed,
they cling to one more hour of night
They forget to breathe
starved of air until they crack open
joints swollen and askew
Unable to point

My hands are now stained
with henna and tears
as they itch with longing

August, 2017

— The End —