Through miles

and miles

of interstellar space -



Even flies

have a place to land

and observe us.

Rather, a dull smile of yours
Painted around fabrics
Made from papers that burn to the touch, the eyes.

Day by day
My room; cloister of desire
Stagnant as it is
Holds many faces, each resembling you
So where are you?

Ah, these fake lips
I wish to touch them; remain unbitten
You lie in waiting, behind miles of glass and miles of rain.

So holding a frame
Uneven with my desires; tame body
Leaving it behind. Turning. Closing my door.
The real thing lingers nearby.

Can you capture a tune with a camera?
Can you follow a chord with your eyes?
Can you trace a quartet onto paper?
Can you give a song color with dye?


No.


But you can listen.

Her vitals are dropping like flies

The air in the room is staler than bread

Everyone here is a critic of sorts

Amidst curtains and curtains of black, sunken eyes


Her dreams are breaking like stone

The table beside her is colder than ice

She feels love on her arm but can’t love it back

Can only see curtains of palpable bones


So meager, her breath, it drops.

Falls flat.

Around the bend

On the usual street with the usual words

Exchanged in hushed whispers

Is anyone listening?


Across the avenue

A loud sound, or two, or eleven

Exchanged from one gentleman to the next

I fear for myself


Under the bridge

The pressure of my peers

Exchanged under the palm, between fingers

Do I dare succumb?


Beyond my window

A grouping of indifference, single file

Exchanged by words held aloft

I see familiar faces

Hear familiar voices

Feel familiar feelings


Through the city

On my way to school

Exchanging hands with Sister, tightly

I don’t feel safe here