the slow art of breathing bitter

Winter Reverie

He counts the freckles dotted

on my nose and kiss them gently

in the damp sunshine.

I never liked them, but he told

me they were the brown stars on beige skies.

And like a sad murmur, their colors seep

into the warmth of winter memories.

He has my freckled face tattoed on his shoulder,

like a glimmering city in purple lights.

The sky falls silent in the crumbs of moonbeam.

We dance on the grass barefoot and laugh like

there's no tomorrow;

The unmarred blue of the sky falls drop by drop

as the city flows beneath it.

We try to breach the silence that stretches our

laughter into void pain.

He makes another promise of hellish beauty,

holding me between his arms and whispers

"I love you."

But this time, the newborn stars look like

rising and falling of the colors of love,

in the faint murmurs of needing someone.

Our last hurrah flows underneath our feet

like a bloodstream of shadowed caress

crushing the delirium of joy.

The colors drown and drown,

'til the shadows and lies could grow no more

in the thinned afterglow.

We stay awake for some more time,

before exploding into the black holes of

rhapsody dotted with purple lights —

Another dream, weighing the false candor.

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A/N: Well, the little star's available when you truly liked this :)

© March 20, 2023. Sreeja Naskar.