I drip into the palm of your hands
and make my home in the lines,
filling every crevice with myself
so I may always be by your side.

Little footsteps in this moon dust sand,
I chase my memories as they flee my grasp,
Racing the clouds to embrace the sun.

A heart, content, is left on your doorstep,
I hope, someday, the person you are meant to become will trace back the way I came and exchange the goodbyes we once hung
out to dry.

But until then, here in this momentary stillness
An opportune silence blooms into this heart of mine,
And it seems I've misplaced it in your moonlit palm

I listen to your heart
Beat in rhythm to the rain
Pouring out somber melodies.
The world drapes silent,
Where your eyes sing
Meteor shower wonders.
Sometimes,
It feels too much to grasp,
Tied to an endless
Invisible string around my palm.

she studies his soft features
with furrowed eyebrows,
catching every detail
in the palm of her hand.
the palm lines show their story.

as the rain poured upon my palms,
i’ve reached out just to feel your touch.

Palm fronds are falling,
Floating,
slowly,
like feathers
I lean against the arching trunk
of this beautiful palm tree.
Falling.
It’s an old tree,
leaves will fall,
it happens;
but they fall,
it’s beautiful
but they fall,
too quickly,
but they fall.
I look up to the light.
There’s a never-ending canopy.
Where did all these fronds come from?

Don’t you know it’s time to wake up sister?
It’s warm.
The night is coming.
But it’s warm.
It’s warm?
You were always the logical one.
Telling me it’s time to wake up.
It’s always time to wake up.  
But you’re here.
Yes,
leaning against the trunk,
touching the roughness of the bark,
stretching my limbs like the roots.
No,
You are the soft furs of the fronds,
the small spines
elongating from the rachis,
the parts that are destined to fall.
It’s time to wake up sister.

I am awake
Looking up to fronds,
reaching around the thin trunk –
the other side ...
it's empty.
I am awake,
the fronds keep falling.
I am awake.

They , the grass carps
eat away the algae of my brooding from the pond of my feelings.
Like painters , they paint the blank canvases of my life with unforgettable sweet and beautiful moments by their delicate and innocuous jacose paint brushes.

Tickling me with loads of laughter by their innocuous hilarious acts is their shadow.

Folding the tender age of the two little beauties into my palms for ever is my fantasy and living with their childhood memories shall be my ice cubes on my burning wounds.