• nightwriter_i 33w

    Metaphor. I have written over twenty eight verses in the past 5 days and each one of them smells like smooched lips and wet tongues, gliding right across the hallway when we browse the aisle to exictment at the prospect of the change we want. In bits I see you, once giggling on the arm chair, rubbing your hand against the silk curtain as you pass by my room, time stops for a while when you turn back to look at me.

    The bent of your waist, the bent on your neck and your shining eyes, honestly I don't know why I write about you, it's a sham. These days I am preoccupied with the daily bickering that amends into nothing, still there is time for me to write a few words that, at the end, would mean nothing as well. Read it, it's nothing.

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    How do we measure time? By mooring your fate to the watch that fits on your palm?

    I like to measure it by the moment it takes to fill a jug with the syrup that runs in your body.

    Press you firmly against a wall, lift a leg up, touch your belly and mould you in my colour.

    Not in a go, would I want to stop treating my ears, every drop counts.

    Pull you close, push you far
    Playing with the jargons
    that my hands have become
    in the absence of your grip.

    There are moments we lose, some we gain
    If this night ends too early
    I hope you don't taste sour
    the very next day.