I fall in love with you 
again and again,
until regret becomes a jargon.
.
.
You are a dream marked by absence, 
in which a rainbow decided to 
leave its blue behind 
so that I can write a sappy poem.
You are the fingertips of serendipity 
that I hold while sliding over landmines, planting volcanoes inside my pores 
so that I can name what love is.
You are teeth marks of a god, 
over an orange yet to ripen, 
after forty days of flood , 
so that I can worship them till last breath. 
.
.
My pen is angry at me, 
for remembering you again.


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