Don't uproot flowers in the first place, 
then they won't wilt.
In the uproar of vapour of colours, 
grief was taking 
the form of a deaf translation.
In the shade of dark nights, 
the doors were standing  still, 
until the wind ran on shapeless feet.
We were children, who were
afraid of magic glitter.
Drowning,
In the water of womb.
Manicured to sit in a lawn 
borderded by bloodline of fathers.
Stuffed inside the   
throat of death's desire.
We were two birds inside their shells, 
manifesting a storm, 
so that we can fly.
We are a single record of raptures, 
lifting words of flame that is 
tender as a God's love.
We were water, our roles in between
comforting or being danger .
We were two names
alive in the graveyard.
And then you kissed me- 
a coffee burn.
A structured and systematic bruise.

Heaven is your pronoun, 
hell is mine.

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