Twist on the floor, the bitumen found like wetness of rain on hands, my palms on you, you are holding me carefully to say. Tell me, are you holding me carefully? Waist length down your duffel coat I run away with you. Hands and hands again, are we spinning the air blue - there in the azure kept, where were we on the road, that now on such thick azure we pour down on the grasses on the ground. There the alleyway in emptiness of streetlights, you are leaving me lonely with the Tungsten tonight. Come, come, come again, shivers on the edge of lips a goodnight. Must you say, must I pray on knees up my feet, you are almost leaving honey; must I sing not to hurl the air, fingers all squirming in spaces of the split of plain skin, art you at the doorstep still?; his the poem on her sleep, he thought of no disturbance in the room, and to still reach the door somehow. Is he pulling at the fringes in mahogany- I kept finding the fibers of him on thinness of yarns of the fabric. Am I finding him beyond the doormat; he meets the jamb on clean shoes. Spinning about the bodkin my body bare now, he undoes the curtains in the room; gorgeous eventide was it that came I screeching the forest on feet, all leaves in his teeth, I breathe in the lapse of time so slowly. My shoes wet, his brown suddenly - I will not clean.
© Ananya