Why
when we grow fangs...

It was in the black and white of his magic
that all my childhood turned into colours...

Orson Welles,
a man...

In our love,
the universe continues...

When was
and where...

In that café, I penned my poems
pinned a living butterfly of my heart...

The respite is shortening
like my hair in the barber shop...

Somewhere in distance
boundaries of space...

Yet eager for more
noticing in the mirror...

We might be just a dot, a stratum,
buried in the layout of ladybug wings...

Before reaching the end,
life placed you before me...

Such inverse efficacy:
Rocks grind...