it sleeps
wry, the tide of meaning seeps
transpiring through erosion, til
the cracks reveal a secret,
hollow, in the highest hill
which scrapes the sky

through night and day which pass us by
within the blink of an eye
the howling of the wind in interim
un-winged beings wish to fly
sweeping dirt and dust and dusk and dawn
away into the emptiness
that claims itself as nought; abyss, 

it sleeps

the bidden meaning of the deep
eternal matriarch of heaven’s rays unfurling
only wakes to blink an eye
and see the world return to starlit sopor
light which shines beneath the mind
betraying souls against their mortal forms
it eats

it eats of liminal things,
of transience in space,
and whilst we race
unending to our deaths
til nothing’s left

it is consuming
of the moving
til inert
in stillness rests
it sleeps

for it knows
the dreams of life
to life bestow
in gestating below

the mind, aglowing
shall it grow
unto the flowing
and the overflow

It wasn’t “I love you”
but at least it was goodbye.

It's like holding

on to a poem you

couldn't memorize,

while your phone's

battery went dead.

finding a pen in an

odd pocket of your

school bag.

to write your palm

into being, at the back

of a half-quarantined

bus.

to forget about the poem

by force of poems that rubbed

it out.

holding on to things.

It feels like parts of you are slipping through my grasp,
and all I can hold onto is a vague fog,
deepening around me.
I wake up, your touch on my skin, your name coming through my stuttered breaths.
And I don’t really know if it hurts less, or it just hurts differently.