The countryside spring murmurs no sin
The mountain hounds howl no judgment
If not cradled in a palace, death dies for the last time
If not imposed by a preacher, anguish becomes bygones
Wolves cry at night for a reason
Lose the guns, see them dance
A liberty made simple—a real spectacle

Gazing at you I trip.

The harder I gaze,
        the more I dream about the cosmos
        lying beneath the theatrics of your face;

The harder I trip,
        the more I weaken my knees to witness
        those zodiac signs reversing in pace.

After one solitary foxtrot
of the world around the sun,
I was taken by a gentle storm
to a secret bonfire
between a forest and an ocean

wherein nobody knew me
but the briny taste of the breeze,
the tight embrace of the nightfall,
and the familiar depth of your dimples.

Neither of the broken constellations
nor the remorseless rocks along the shore
were a picture perfect. None of the
language of apologies concurred.

But the sand was alluring us to stay
with the gestures of our lips gambling
an invitation to be sewn together;
a sin so unforgivable yet so prudent.

A butterfly stays
in a king’s bush, laden
with blush roses—
an orphan of the garden.
Home of the yesteryear,
now thorn whips cracked
By old wardens.
Flee, you blossom flapping.
Flee, for your proboscis
seeks for sanctuary,
Not a casket.

You are not speaking
but I’m already listening.
I’ve been shouting out
your name from miles
that the echoes only fill
my mind. I keep chasing
the sprint of your voice
along with this selfish
space that keeps us apart.
If you never cared, never
noticed, never realized,
at least repay all the stares
I have stolen from you.
Feel the glances I’ve bitten
away from you. For these
starving eyes will battle
the pain in its gut until
you feed them with yours.