i have already something
new and sublime to say
about love.
as two people on the bench
where the birds are
unashamedly perching right by,
pecking on the cheek of the world
soon enough now, the hand of
which mad drivel shall tear
this photograph in two
and with a hand on the knee
as a gentle stamp to
a reaching-for-and-out epistle,
we are far away,
and love is as sad as the
flower that has grown
weary of waiting for the sun
to fulminate altogether with
its eyes staring in the
veranda of hope wide-awake.
and love is as short as the
sudden jolt of bones, atremble,
as though you have fallen
completely into,
but have only fallen out,
partially, one foot first
out the yawning door
and into the heavy premises
of a heart's trying forgetfulness.
to have heard once, the call
of a tame voice through
the wild hand of trouble's immensity, and to have held it
once so shortly bold thereafter,
with leonine eyes i see only
a small distance i cannot seal
with one kiss. i need a hundred more of you and a thousand more of this before i can fill your nebulosity with a million star-like
kisses traced only by the
white hand of time that continues to punctuate our
sentences right even before
our lips quiver to speak them
softly like how i first sank
in you and you in me, a flotsam
of memories.
i have something new to show
about love with mine eye's
unresting shutters capture
moments held loose like a mother's
frail child,
this photograph with your hand
on my knee,
cleaved into worlds from the
silence of our eyes and
only longing
speaks so much the straightforward,
we are far away.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
i have already something
new and sublime to say
about love.
as two people on the bench
where the birds are
unashamedly perching right by,
pecking on the cheek of the world
soon enough now, the hand of
which mad drivel shall tear
this photograph in two
and with a hand on the knee
as a gentle stamp to
a reaching-for-and-out epistle,
we are far away,
and love is as sad as the
flower that has grown
weary of waiting for the sun
to fulminate altogether with
its eyes staring in the
veranda of hope wide-awake.
and love is as short as the
sudden jolt of bones, atremble,
as though you have fallen
completely into,
but have only fallen out,
partially, one foot first
out the yawning door
and into the heavy premises
of a heart's trying forgetfulness.
to have heard once, the call
of a tame voice through
the wild hand of trouble's immensity, and to have held it
once so shortly bold thereafter,
with leonine eyes i see only
a small distance i cannot seal
with one kiss. i need a hundred more of you and a thousand more of this before i can fill your nebulosity with a million star-like
kisses traced only by the
white hand of time that continues to punctuate our
sentences right even before
our lips quiver to speak them
softly like how i first sank
in you and you in me, a flotsam
of memories.
i have something new to show
about love with mine eye's
unresting shutters capture
moments held loose like a mother's
frail child,
this photograph with your hand
on my knee,
cleaved into worlds from the
silence of our eyes and
only longing
speaks so much the straightforward,
we are far away.
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