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 Mar 2021
Àŧùl
Unread. I am a poem,
Read me. I deserve your time,
Heartless. Drop-in your heart for me.

Thirsty. Rain your love,
Feed me. I love your reviews,
Artless. All my words are so truthful.

Story. I am an unforgettable saga,
Narrate me. Retell me to your family,
Fearless. I become proud forevermore.
My HP Poem #1918
©Atul Kaushal
 Jan 2021
Wanderer
Pursed lips french exhale into the coldness of late January
On the inhale I can taste your cemetery shadows
The rich, bitter heat of your stalwart heart
Thumping to the tune of midnight
I want to draw on your edges with salt and whiskey
Make it burn, make it hurt
Let it really sink in how far away our fingertips have become
Am I still she?
Is this still me?
Looking for answers under the bird feeder
All I find are empty shells
 Dec 2020
Jack B
1st
A moment, an ethereal softness that, within it,
consumed is the whole being.

It was nature and nerves set to flame.
A gentle lust and lightness that built speed
and heft deep in the pit of me.
I felt how it made your cheeks burn, then your eyes averted mine.
Your gut-reaction in word form. "****."
Grace not by the usual terms
but through the breathy intonation,
to be felt rather than heard.
Raw. And unfiltered gut-stuff.  
Freshly churned in the deep pit of you.
And urged up pressing against your teeth
til the last defenses breached.
And through swollen lips parted.
The very place of origin.

Where it began a-flutter, and,
once realized,
with nauseating visceral coercion.

Bodies to become stardust
afloat the wintry night cool.
Washing over the lake as we stood afront it all.
Bodies to become heat.
A reduction of bone, muscle, flesh.
Liquid- like-swimming bodies.
But everything swimming.
Mind and spirit too-
swimming floaty- like.
Swimming in the liquid night-pool of star matter.
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