it awaken the gossamers of something last decades' and the left ones beneath banyan cultured pyheb.
|| and it often absquatulate heritage ||
today i turned to koe no katachi, yes the same movie we watched and it stretches the marks of my scrapbook i made, when i was seven. palash upright behind the verandah before his mirzai manteau my half-melt moon to maa's forehead red and i know she knows i wore her lipstick on core of lugra while the tangerine on my palms dried when the infancy stitched the same description of dark as haunting. and it says those days. i canoodled amongst the womb of bravery whenever grandma's story dictated dark and you know it no more felt brittle, it felt familiar yet not homely. i saw coquina after you and you know it still stutter sometimes when i burglared to your kitchenette howbeit it shared, today;
|| the summer on my hands dried on grandma's death||
/substitute to rice, sometimes the vermicelli to sweet corn or koda kutki to millet. add 1/4 cup and soak it into skies' safa /and during the skillet to, on the flame, floor it with full-fat milk/ low the tint on brink of love / include sapphire of sareureuk saffron/ then drain the rice, add it to boiling milk/ and let it be the beginning, and yeah no need to cover the entire /add raw saccharine aka sugar when the rice is half-cooked /after an attire it is entirely tired to rest inside your stomach/ tasted cardamon on cup. sliced almonds. chopped cashews. cut pistachios accompanied with dry grape on top & ta-da the kheer potpourri those debris of your spittle / haha. dear xxx, do you remember you taught me this whilst the parijat fallen out of risette-recipe of your name?
|| mirinae hallucinated hallyu while way back home ||
i went behind ashoka tree to trade analyst when flowers bloom at sapphire and summer steadily addressed his name with mine and it felt love and for a moment it was just us. dear xxx, i love skies, sakura & summer cause they never forbid f o r e v e r. fireworks finishes off and you know it felt two nights before the death occurred to my fireflies which i wore on cadaver canvas. doctor said, more illusions and it illustrated - i don't have enough time - verified virtuoso on brink of bardic my breast pressed down on pain and it was heavy. "her pulse rate reached to one thirty-five, how less left ?" they said. i saw dad doing his best but i befriended with death.
|| your silence portrait Van Gogh's vignette ||
i was twelve when i felt it for first, and it was fucking painful you know. i hid it and hoped. i met a stranger while discovery of metaphors deceived, it bloomed in fossils and cobble-sized an exclamation to existence. i know i no longer can write, till the fingertips stop managing maestral each midway to stay. and the tenses upon their tongues started changing and it grammatically wrong on grandma's souvenirs but it farspeak the pokemon cards i kept since september sidewalks. do you often listen, "likhe jo khat tujhe" to "lag jaa gale" until standstead umbrage from sky and recite the emblazoned leaf, i once had interest on.
|| it has been seven-thirty augurs, i am about to fade ||
on august, i dialled gaullifered coquelicot out accordion and i saw everyone saying sayonara. i don't had any idea to awedde the name, i recited. he left and it awaited from seven to fourteen. it has been ensuring uncertainties that felt a less today. seems like time is flying fast or maybe its just me who realised it bit later but it should be fourteen and fine.
her eyes look like unheard story when the fibster on desk hid caeles clays to camouflage the stretch marks to patch the pitfalls of past and somedays to retch instrumental bougainvillea that boundaries the infancy to maturation on the other days to rate machination.
the rain is falling and with each wither it worded into matinee. last night, it fell off the floor and versify the battle-scars as masquerade scabo and the alliteration re-played the radio station, it discovered metaphors, composed some more. rain sang same sarang to count dead fireflies before dawn.
two lovers found a fairytale, on brink of fictional forever. he forbid her name while reading red-thread. howbeit, the either way to take down skylines she whispered worded waldeinsamkeit to tangerine. the lusty love on the back of larynx said, "true love knows no league".
your smile is a lie, behind the mosaics of canopied fress that often forget to cherish the belamour cause the catastrophic cwtch the brasserie which sphere the horizon of his heart. the sitzifleisch desiccated frondescence before fall, it withered before words.
when flowers bloom at sapphire and stretches skies an hour before sareureuk, a poet pictorize perpetrate pashmina within september sidewalks. She, an eighteen apostolus calligraphy which he used to canoodled somewhere near framework which she made on forelsket.
i saw masquerade upright the marrow, which spleen the satire until salwa judum the Shakespeare(d) aperte the discombobulated wine "I am fine" - merlot tangerine on the attire of eighteenth, wear autopsy, it steadily puffed out amaranth and the emancipated beneath the unfamiliar words, it has. But believe me, it forpe a sour evacuated fortnight of Healthcliff & Catherine.
i saw realism fibbing, perfidy f o r e v e r & the forbidded goodbye on Van Gogh's vainer. - It never be Romeo & Juliet - The starry night stuttered, & the daydreams of spring wither before autumn.a hand on absquatulation saying hurt and his fornication to rein obliterated f a u l t s. it augured up flotsam & tore the dissection of his death. he left, and forelsket myth.
i saw the hunted fireflies on my collar bone wearing all kinds of outskirts and the unknown today, it said the dysthymia till maestral elflock intumescented. coquilot accordion and his schmaltzy rejigged cruses. somedays I'm someone else to chew the curse, death said.