another wooden bench, where I leave the world behind. Tibetan monks stroll languidly through this walkway.
McLeod Ganj.

Look at my blood flowers

because I write
with a serene sharp blade
that soothes
as much as cuts into the deepest parts of my soul.

with fire in your eyes
and a carve of wind in your words
you hear
spirits call back and forth
between falling leaves
and all
that they burn.

an angel day
spoken spray rakes
what cancers cause a soul's inward turn,
even the longest of
nights cannot consume the
entirety of my shadows.

You're the smell of ink on the pages of an old book.

Mainlining you
eye dropping
every word.

Two big beautiful poems,
your eyes.