Invariably,
You prefer to come
To me in the dark.
"You're more my temperature then,"
You once said.
I'm not much of a thermometer,
But I am the eurythmy
To each syllable you give
In such settled shadow.
A play of murmurs and fingertips,
You once named this.
Always I see a wreath in your hair,
In colors of Persia,
Textures of night,
And the soft blended lines
Of you I know
Infallibly.

there are roses growing
from my hands
My doubt the seeds
Begging them to grow

There are roses climbing
up my arms
digging in my skin
but i am numb
to their thorns and beauty

There are roses growing
in my lungs
bloodied petals
filling my throat
and falling from my lips

Tears are sliding
down my cheeks
I've had enough
I am to weak

Velvet words on red lips--
They fell with the weight
Of dormant hopes
And whispered goodbyes,
A flickering lightbulb
Going off in her eyes--
The jaunty smile of her skirt
Seemed to deflate,
Hanging limply just below
Her bruised knees--
She said so many things.
Now was the time
To say the ones
she missed.

Sometimes,
I just wanna leave
everything and everyone
Just to see who'll find me
In the crowd of thousands
Will ever someone actually
be bothered about my absence
I wanna sit back and watch

-   SASR

Mimosa pudica retreat
Humid glasshouse, rainy day
Pane-separated from the world
Exhaling foggy vagueness
Colours run wet
World through window walls,
a distorted Monet reproduction
Morphing, mixing, mushy
Each canvas exists for a sliding second
Glass and breath
Collaborating through condensation
Our fuzzy-haze masterwork

Panoramic gossamer lens
Magically softens
spiky, scratchy, sharp, crispness
into a smudgy simulacrum
A kind deceit
Frowns, scowls, growls,
and bared-toothy rage,
all smeared
Gently redacted
Calm, dreamy, pillowscape broadcast
Impressionist buffer
In muted pastels

Reality in artful disguise
Remoulded for ease of consumption
Sugary spoonful of subterfuge
Sifting, sorting, selective
Incomplete and fragmentary
Blur-clouded brain-break
Intermittent extra distance
Breath-focused,
soupy-warm,
momentary masterpiece
Just for me
Until my leaves unfurl

What hurts more?
Is it the void of your absence,
Silent, consuming, endless—
Or the torment of dreams,
Where I hold you, only to lose you at dawn?