I saw her in the woods
where the night colours start their journey.
Like phosphorus, like crying seagulls, like unkempt trees.
Those eyes…those kohled eyes, how many times I have to die to be seen with those eyes?
I couldn’t get beyond them,
the bottlegreen tank top, a spring of hairs fallen over the right cheek,
the outspoken nipples like dew drops on a winter morning…
I watched her…I watched her…I watched her as I watch blue whales.
She was silent, I was silent,
she was taken, I was taken,
Only an indifferent evening was between us…
And I couldn’t cross that evening with my feet.
I don’t know why always right people come at wrong times…
I still don’t know whether she was right or not but I know the time wasn’t right at all.
Poetries do sleep on bed, poetries do get undressed like a crimson fall, poetries do ride poets through moulded orgasms…
she was a poetry then. She was a poetry then
but I couldn’t translate the words.
Sometimes I wish I would never see her… sometimes I wish I didn’t know how much she smiles when she feels humor…
Sometimes I wish I could meet her as a hitchhiker and sleep with her one night and leave in her depressed sorrow.

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Photograph: Google images.