I can’t find sharpness over this farm of sugarcanes, 

even if I sleep over them; perhaps I won’t. 

Sleeps come when there’s distance from you…

This erasing twilights, one closing fire, all a fiesta of your escaping enlightenment. 

When I was falling like sick concretes over you; I remember you said,

parachutes never ensure flying…they always ensure landings. 

And I shedded all the pulling strings from me…

I fell as a drunk vegabond…

over you, on your omnipresent breasts,

you stretched and I found the burning log inside. 

There were no pigeons, no cacophonies of fooling confidences,

we were and we belonged.   

Broken glasses now. 

I have blue nights and brown liquors and you ain’t here; sucking me away with your fearless moon. 

Spoken words are taken but I will flourish in containment, 

for a night that lasted for our imaginations and tides on our bodies,

i am going to stroll for the frames of that time only.

………………………………………………………………………

Photograph: Google.