My sadness is a green grape
And yours, a strawberry bun.
I have stared enough at your voice 
to understand that 
there is no art that can 
help you swallow it.
That there is no language 
that can help you 
to articulate the softness.
You have listened to my eyes 
enough to understand that
there is no seasoning 
that goes perfectly my grief.
That no word play can dictate 
the poised gifts of  my adulthood.
It is the magnetic strip of our silence 
that  measures our solace, 
grasping shape of space.
We have grown tired of holiness.
There is self pollination of guilt.
Despite everything,
we search for metaphors, 
trying to hold our mind
in our fists.
So, one day, when
your shower turn into  a red river,
I will be the first one to understand.
This is why my tenderness is cruel.
This is why my love is frightening.
On the other hand, one day,
when my carpet turns blue 
enough to be a sea,
you will be first to turn into salt.
This is why your tenderness is aching.
This is why your love is tender.


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