For the yawning dim night that wraps itself around...
if you believe that I'm a new moon glowing through...

Proudly ineffective;
worn like a stitch of old wool...

What do you want of me?
the ghost, the lone lover writing poetry...

I enclose no desire to write about the
country resting in South Asia...

Your face burns, in stillness,
outside my winter lane...

I took fire from the amber
you hid under the pillow...

To go beyond the sun in streams
Like a warrior inside a child...

Supposed to bed under Sad poems, but ya nature...

The sky smothers me with showers of cold
but I grin as though, I am soaked in gold...

You were not my past;
you were the lost intervals...

I'm a current of seasons,
a loose routine of uncertain...

I possibly will no longer relax along
the shores of someone's aquatic core...