Morning every hibiscus stem was bearing
blooms. I squinted eyes and turned them
into little red stars. A specific glow in their
perimeter excused themselves from any
metaphor. I loved them the way beauty is
by someone who believes it is flexible like
doors. Sharp as love. Like a horse leaping
beyond a ranch fence. How easy they moved
in the tiny wind. The following day I see the
blooms withered, drooping down the stems.
Something I imagined as stars journeyed
through a time tunnel. Became heavy to stay
static between petite air. How between life flatness
we hold off devotion for small moments whose
cores are made of dynamic wheels' enthusiasm.
2. Lived Lifetime
At the edges of a lived lifetime
we met unlived like a wanderlust
who lost maps at journey middle
World shifts each moment. So did
we. When our vases broke, we were
out of our houses. Our addresses
different as mascara and nail paint.
I remember the wind had colors of
burnt sandwich and abandoned nest
at the window sill. Everything was
between bitterness and foot mat. The
way I did before house lights slept
along us. Before I reached threshold
like a struggling answer. Some absences
Wade through misfortunes and time's
obediences before it. I carried a light
and honey on my back. Which I
believed are true things this cosmos
makes goodly in a good mood. My
arms loosening the burden like sticky
mud from a nudged shovel. See him walk
away like a flirtation that finds difficult
to grow roots, in a small field surviving
with a charm for its faith in the process.
The drought drawing lines upon it as art.
3. Only once
Only once I asked don't you still
feel love for me. You kept silence
on your tongue the way a land keeps
something of geography. I have these
hands and they want to knock on the
door of your house. The clouds hanging
above have always been a reflection thing
of namelessness. The vase for which you
never gather spring is a humorless poetry
in wait for someone to read. This is like a
moonshaft pressed to an ebb of your psyche.
Won't you let me in. Your stares undefeated
on my face, make the sound of words not-
revealed, not-spoken. What to understand
of a letter inside a closed envelope. I was
told unspoken sorrows become rain. Was
it a dream I saw a tear drop drop on your
collar. Is this how a bulb dims to a coldness.
The evening that aspires to come inside sits
on the window. What grief. Why not to work
a thing that was once alive the way a desolate
nest means it was once built until an unbelonging
filled it thick. A blue metaphor steering the floors.