The clouds on the tinned roof, can, at best reach me as ‘mind
If not! then the first stair step, marking the entrance, will be my
trying to have you as much as possible. The presence of a saliva will help me gulp you, confirming
that April mosses are still slippery and the rain
hasn’t yet died.
There are just three hands, from three co-ordinates; the ones who lend their care to my head, quite often,
and so I prefer a room with no fan; as disappearance always involves a higher pleasure.
I peel off my days and spread them; hanging them around me.
You pace up to enter but crash against them; leaving behind a few
faces on the walls.
I still can’t arrow, the scene where you hold a rose, and the one in which you wear a rose.
A wall of picture frames
Let me shift the garland today to the next
Let me shuffle my memories.
You will see the spoon-tip, create a ripple
on your cup.
Think, that’s the reason, I still keep attracting;
I am a life.
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