.

 My fingers are tiny prayers to my favorite goddess on your forearm seeking something holy in myself. 

There are poems in terza rima you keep inside your eyes, while standing in the pink drool of evening sun.

While counting lost souls

I tuck your words inside my breast pockets, 

an open wound dipped in lime juice and salt. 

You whisper secrets to the daffodils in the backyard, holding a pen of dreams in your hands.

You are not a thing, 

but a God , 

a master of none. 

An Anglo Saxon word everybody forgot.

A stained glass angel,

A nest where I belong. 

My mouth is a rainbow coloured graveyard, 

with words so blue and cobwebbed, 

so how can I tell you how much i love you?

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