Your smile,
the white queue of musical tone...

Why
when we grow fangs...

I was really burning for your caressing hands
until I learned you were just a semblance I was...

Life is somewhere between the length of hyenas...
and the sweet tweet of nightingales...

"You have to burn in order to shine"
_ this was a burning moth susurrating...

Thus,
whispered an hourglass in my ears...

To explore the possibilities of words
is not the poet’s due...

There are ends to the distances
There are ends to all the roads...

Mirrors shy away when I look at me
I think in me one could never...

Their gifting spirits
live on in their absence...

O blooms
my eyes could hardly hold on to you now...

There is a desert between our lips
that could not be watered...