I am waiting for you to show up
like the azure ribbons of northern lights
in the end of the velveteen-blue horizon.
I can almost hear your steps
if I hold back my breath
and silence my heart.
Your steps having a caressing sound
of touching the dusty ground.
Your body is the living night -
upon your shoulders, you hold slumbering stars
for the moon is your radiating heart.
I am waiting for you to show up,
I am waiting for the rising
of my midnight sun.
In this my time of need,
I dream about
those Harmattan-breezed stories
you left unsaid on my skin,
for you were so dreaded by the thought
that your light may come alive from its slumber,
that I may reflect and echo you.
And I am whispering now,
repeating the song of your beating heart,
before you could also withdraw your touch,
and say: rather stay blind than to face with these all.
I unbound my hair...
Already accepted that he is the one of his kind;
he is never going to happen again, though,
he has shed and shared too much blood
for keeping himself alive -
always on the still
I am the cosmonaut of his existence;
the explorer of his oneness
for he is the macrocosm of my blooming.
Only imagined the moving,
dreamed the breathing
for I was walled up alive
beneath the body of life,
its womb was my tomb,
its stasis was my shroud,
yet, my immurement
is come to an end now, though,
for I can witness the rising
of the dark harvest moons
under your eyes.