The sun is screaming through your hair.

You have been brushing the stars from it.

Wind is wiping the dust on your chair.

You are cutting tiny grasses on your skin.

Your heart is a bottle of cherry wine.

But I won't drink it, it looks very fine.

Your words are as icy as your dark eyes.

You are my desire—making me rise.

We can make a house up in the tree.

We can sail. Together, we can be free.

© Soumojit Dutta