You have your own
words, hired from my
lips. Ad libbed I will
go dumb.
There was instant
empathy with fireflies.
They don\'t sing while burning.
It was a highlitened
pain, when I moved my
dark fingers on your
white skin to write a poem.
Who was picking
marbles after breaking
the glass windows?
Love was not
a job to be completed.
It makes you immortal
in your grave.
Is this was my
punishment? I will not
see your hands?