If you would tear my clothes open
on my chest you will see
a never ending hole
in a silhouette of you.

No.
I'm fine.
As a matter of fact,
I'm happy. And perfect.

Yes,
my hair's uncombed
and my clothes are ragged
and I live everywhere

Under the table, sometimes
framing infinity.
Or on the edge of the precipice
conquering literature and flying

Or somewhere in the street
scattering the everlasting tunes
whilst letting the wind dismember
the feathers swirling round my earlobe.

It's my choice.
I refused to inhabit the life of conventionality.
On a fine summer day,
if you prefer, you can

Run away with me.

Peers on your window
at night
when you're asleep
and inhales the arch
of your shoulder
barely visible
to the moonlight.

I'm trying to write something,
something I cannot guarantee.
Trying to make it fluid,
by containing it in words
woven restlessly
by my restless hand.
Hoping that they might pour
and traverse the spine of your back
down your leg
and make you laugh.

As your fingers fell flat
on the key board,
your head turned upward
eyes closed, mouth curled in one edge
your hair in sheer uncertainty,

and one at a time
the notes suspend themselves
in the atmosphere
lingering as if
they know no tomorrow.

Watching you from the half-opened door
I want to tell you how beautiful you are to me.
So beautiful that every word in English language
is inadequate to describe you.

The sun is slowly sinking
a wreck on the ocean
trapped in its inevitable destitution.
Steaks of endless goodbyes
loomed over people's shoulders.

While atop the mountain
the streaks of glittering hope
eradicated the darkness
hovering round the wreck
annihilating annihilation.

Between them lay
various forms of forever
in the stretch of the ocean
in the interminable look in their eyes
as they stand on the edge
of the opposing precipice.

Their arms extended
under the same sky.