prague, in a blur.

with sardonic air, we bloom tulips and roses
on our tongues, perfuming every word to
be floral and beautiful. still, every word we
speak is stained with a deep forlorn yearning;
like wanting to visit the isles of your home
country, a land that you’ve never been
acquainted with but the heart still beats
to its anthem. i was young when i first
realized that you were home for me,
maybe too young. i was fixated with the
concept of your collar-bones being the
safest place to bleed sorrow into,
unaware the salt in tears desiccated you -
i know this now. there’s a sodium-orange
outer glow around you – the nights are
still the darkest thing i've come to know,
and you are a beacon of light in the midst
of it all. you feel like prague, always –
there is a certain warmth to you,
a studied tongue that is familiar with
rainer maria rilke, yeats and the likes.
more often than not, i wanted to be the
breath in your lungs before you find
the words to strain it through poetry –
the exact moment where the unsaid
and life existed, only intersecting if at all,
for a brief moment in your poems.
i wonder if the evening light painted
you in the colours your palette never
once armed, or if it was just you,
composed of colours outside the
visible spectrum. it’s like magenta
all over again – except, this time
i’m certain of my senses, you’re
the eighteen bridges over vltava,
the countless lanterns that reign
over the cobblestone streets.
you are the lightest thing i've come
to embrace. i'm certain your fingers
are roots to your heart, forgive me
for reaching towards them, it’s out
of instinct. under the dew of night,
i’ve come to realize –

you'd love me more
if i stopped loving you
the way poets do.