Imagine.

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Can you see?
How
The rain imitates you.
Forces me to hold my breath
and anticipate this touch.

I am akin to
wild things
like rain on a hot summer day.

I can stand in the balcony for hours
Let the rain wet my hair
and slide down slowly
through my loosely hanging shirt.

Like your hands tracing their way
on my skin.
Rain feels familiar today.
As if I could collect you. All of you
in my palm.

Look above.
Even the clouds are jealous.

 

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Foreign.

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There is a strange wind
that speaks to me in dialects
I do not understand.
 
Like the whispering willows
in your backyard
There are yellow leaves there
In summer still.
 
And a pair of robins
perched right upon your
bedroom balconies.
Come slowly now.
It’s a long line.

Have you noticed the way the wind blows?

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Have you noticed
how soft does the wind blow today
as if it was sad from an old friend’s death
or just lazy
after a late Sunday nap.
 
How It makes me forget
even days when your voice was strong enough
to cut through human skin
There is kindness to it and I can touch it
In yellow leaves
falling on the first day of
spring.
 
And whatever it’s motifs might be
It fulfills all of mine.
And isn’t that what humans are about.

Queer.

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In the last maiden
season of spring
mother told me that the jasmine wouldn’t bloom
that year and they didn’t.

For father had died
the day before
and the flowers knew how to cry.

So why do they bloom now
when the lover has taken rest
and that one bite on my neck has vanished away
in the air around us.

only mother knows

she who sits on the porch
knitting sweaters and mumbling sounds
to the flowers.
‘Queer’.

Garden.

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Now
I steal facts
from your history
As if they were secrets at a factory.

And annoy the gardener
at your father’s house
every time the machines rumbled,
Moaned, or cried.

Now again
When the leaves have fallen
and sprung again
In spring.

I can feel them
just the same way
I felt your soft breath on my neck,
the last time we kissed/ made love.

Only this time
the opportunities are low
and I have allowed this transition
from touch to just the wind that touches my skin.

What do I know of love,
after all?
Except that you, my love
are the flower that takes the longest to bloom.