I see lather foams when I close my eyes.
I see your bare feet feeling the warm sand and the wet floor.
When I close my eyes,
I fantasize you and our paradise isle.
The one that's half-melted,
Time turning cold water to rime.
Alike, my fingertips trying to freeze the wine in the glass.
Alike, alike your smile that evaporated as soon as time.
As I was left wondering and wondering and wondering of it thrice,
Thrice and more, until it sliced my valves open,
Baked it in red saucy flavours.
‘Bon appetit!’ as it sounds.
À la carte on the menu cards astounds.
Desolé - my French, it is melancholic.
Stargazer's art is metamorphic.
His love is fantastic,
It bloats to float.
It crawls to roar.
It is subjective to the objective.
A kind of metastatic euphoria.
A kind, a mind that is ideally romantic towards its own feelings.