and if i die,
i don’t want you to mourn me...
It's not your OCD
when you like things...
those three syllables that drank from tropical
waters, grew roots that tapped into the alveoli...
I draw the sun
between the shades of time...
I leave for you my past
and the last paddle in the sea...
I hope those pieces you stole from me
can fill the gaps of your soul...
No more grey-edged yesterdays
brimming monotony...
Yesterday,
my heart was embroidered...
You were not my past;
you were the lost intervals...
Kill me in a poem you inspire,
let me write you in my pen...
Blue fell slowly on the last canvas
like a desperate dark night...
Silence -
your bed's unmade...