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.