I write a poem
and burn it.
what escapes of it
is my soul.

These ethereal black feathers
falling off the light,
are of nothing
but the reiterated deaths,
when I write about you.

The insatiable chaos
of your memories,
fading rainbows
of metaphors.

Replenish me, my love
before I cease to exist.

The many patterns of silence
In nights and blank poems
Yearning to escape

The melody was repeated
each shadowy dawn.
And my waking was
a solitary note,
lingering until its final fade.

We live between
the spaces of
promises,

in broken
tea cups
and
shattered
mornings.

then
new vows
soak up
spilled words

until we
fall again.

Those times
I heard the echo
Long before the sound.

Every day
he wrote
the poem, again
with a different ending.

Lies after lies
He kept writing,
for what is not real but imagined.

....and when he runs out of paper
he writes his words across the sky,
in sunlit dreams, too bright to read.

Tracing the lines of his palms
as if to memorize
the prints she left.

She left her teal pashmina
across the bed
along with
a mumbled 'goodbye'
and coldness.

breath by breath
I fill a well of silence,
Water of the soul
from these thunder clouds
trembling with rainbows