I am fading and he is not noticing. I will be a wisp of air and he won't notice.i know this. I know everything. I know that each time I proclaim my love, I am handing him a stone to throw at me. I know that this man, whom I am afraid to name as mine with confidence, is a crystal cyanide wrapped in sugar syrup. His ugly honesty disarms me, dismantles me ; a flood that washes a garden, thinking that it is helping the dry earth. 
He is sensible enough not to catch a falling knife with his bare hands. Am the fool that runs along streets to make sure that the last wish of an autumn leaf came true. We are not the hands waiting to come together to form a prayer. That is we are two ancient civilizations: one who won and the other who died. So, being safe means being out of love.
But,  love is a silent drowning and he is the mouth of a river.
Every morning I am taking form of another square, contemplating boredom of a childhood no one wanted until it was lost. And like the singing of a temple bell he is holy and distant. I get jealous over the tomatoes who were lucky to be touched by his fingers in the grocery store.May be being a waterfall is easier than crying over something silly like that.
I am a melting tangerine and he is a silent carnival. He is yesterday's arms turned into today's fist.  And I am yesterday's flower, and today's match box.We are both sewed in the hem of a magnet which has lost its scientific properties.
A poem in flight and another in fight.
Anticipation happens only in absence.He calls me pessimist, while all I am doing is waiting for him. 
Am not the woman who gifted sun flowers seeds to the soldiers, am the seeds themselves. So, rot your soul as much as you want; I will grow on your breath.
//Am your way, trust me. My potholes are not dangerous darling: come and play. //

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