There was a time when I didn't know what death was other than the hard silences in a funeral.
When the Holy nakedness of God was not questioned, but was one where solace was found.
It was then you kissed me and taught me about the spilled colours in a bird's brain.
Your words like burnt milk,
but then am a hungry child - malnourished with a tender skin.
My bones so soft -
Red cherries under your white teeth,
Sugarcanes for your mouth.
My flesh, under your tongue, 
lining your inner cheeks-
honouring this palpable killing.
Whips of blue wind rising from your nose, slitting my voice, asking me to 
adore the floor you spit on.
Angry jellies moving in air, 
like an abducted handcuff:
that is meaningless.
Strangeness of ginger gin
when your fingers touch me.
Fear of an apple towards a knife 
spreading in the knotted mattress 
which takes the form of second skin. 
Slavery of a cry, 
its silver tissues unearthing
the memories of summer's 
with sun's golden juice.
Now when I bleed,
I bleed like a bee-
Colourless and in grids.
Benediction of your cruelty.
And now I forgive you for stealing my eyes: 
all you wanted was light, 
just light
and  just to see the road.

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