The sky was
burnt and bruised
and his eyes were
grey and ghostly,
Everything around me
tasted sweet
like his mother’s
homemade applesauce,
The old year
may die – a dream
skin seared
with the blistering sun
the blue-sea left me deep
into pockets—clutching.
And, my silhouette–
falls upon his sodden sea hair,
His mother didn’t have the foggiest idea
about our mystery; that we talked the entire
night after the whole world slept,
And, kissed underneath the eaves,
And, tasted the centers of one another’s
clumsy bodies.
The sky was
burnt and bruised
and I was on
fire–seething.
