MORNINGS

 The world still asleep in its kitty night dress, afraid of vertical bars of a jail and the black tears of its residents. 

There is wrath stuck in the molars of a stranger who sleeps outside the bakery where pastries smile in pink and white. 

The cold wind walking through the balcony listening to mother's magic trick of holding her pain in ceramic jars.

The birds wake up exactly at the time they are supposed to be,  

their alarms hidden in their nests, ready to sing "rise and shine".

Tattered journals cough under unmade beds thinking of road trips that never happened and dreams that were failed long years ago.

Comfortable silence lingering in the air while a library_whore makes love to a less famous author of eighteenth century.

The softness of sun slowly spreading it's hand on earth's collarbone, a lover's touch of beating heart.

And we talk of love and loss in vernacular terms passing our favorite books to each other because we are mere illiterates who read, not write.

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