This morning is softyellowtouchingwhite
Like you and your fadedcandle light.
Like your teardrop on my cheek.
Like finger on lips.
Like curtainscushionscanvas.
Like waiting for your touch
After the midnight hunt.
The sea is a sleepy swirl
Around the blackspeck rocks.
The whitewings have dropped
And boats hang like fragile whitebrown leaves
From my cigarette smoke vine,
Then float as silently as an afterthought
Into the blackcoffee mug.
This morning
(With the clouds blurred and smudged into the sky)
We celebrate
The end of the flame-red hunt
The end of the blackred night
With emptiness.
3 comments:
And you're still writing, in spite of the hurlyburlycurly. I like. I like the intimacy, the softness and the heart in this piece of writing. :)
ah
Sikan is alive and well. In the reddest of his rushes, in the blackest of cometswirls...
Stoplookcryrun
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