I want to share the sunset with you, I don’t want to be
reduced to slivers of photographs and pixels
when there are colours so vivid, you’re sure
God spilt blood, jackfruit & mangoes
across the sky. I break in half like a wishbone,
when I spot the couple’s silhouette dancing on the ground when
they stitch the waning sun into their eyes.
One half endures through the colours______The other half melds into the long shadow
becoming proficient in light, warming______forming night at the expense of burning
itself by eschewing words, navigating______myself, so I start to unfurl, planting
only by feelings—do you think the______wounds as memoirs of proof of a life that
birds think about their destination_______I lived, begrudgingly.
before flight? They’re drawn to places,______In short, there’s nothing but
and I—your heart.__________________ you.
I want to sit with you in a patch of warmed grass,
drinking cold water, watch the clouds, read books,
do nothing—and everything in between.
It’s though we were stained by the same primordial star-stuff
in our respective wombs; there’s something tethering us,
we don’t give it a name, not out of fear but out of respect.
Not all things need to be named, like this overwhelming desire
to share everything with you, to view life through your lens,
the constant wondering of how you’d interpret things.
I want to share everything with you,
the hurt that is constantly spilling, the yearning that never stops,
the love that piles on and on, the soft musings that makes
me think the world just might be good enough for
you.
