the cusp between longings and losses is
where I drift into the silent memories
of a man with crepuscular skin.
an art journal on his lap,
and moonbeams in his hair
my eyes licked the sorcery in his;
blemished face that
gazed at constellations
and a bronze moustache
where silver seeds sprout.
one day,it rained.
clouds travelled across
mountains and rivers,
over mussels and bluebells
to soak us in the downpour.
a million drops drizzled and
we melted into the pockets of monsoon.
yet his seeds grew
in my trampled soils
and bloomed into poetry
and poppies every spring.