The oranges wait to be peeled.
You turn into the softness of a cat's feet.
Because, 
long before becoming a tragic poem,
you had preserved your heart 
into a lemon pickle, 
with all it's blues and yellows 
perfectly balanced,
like a woman praying with her eyes closed, 
so that she can see God.
Like a wingless bird I search your memory 
with all it's flaws, 
and remember that your mouth 
is the miracle that prophets were mentioning.
You touch the places of my heart 
where only grief have come close
and keep my dead body hostage 
in this war zone, after keeping 
twenty seven moons of uranus
inside your ribcage as a part of negotiation.
You trace minutes by counting 
the laugh of dirty cicadas, and I tore a paper out of my notebook so that you can draw a map of postmodern love convent.
You don't ask for the ink, 
you simply smile at me.
I will let you cut me like this, 
in this kind way , 
and sew your name with tulips there.
We are two copper plates waiting 
to be turned into gold bars.
One of us will leave and the other 
will wake up to swollen pink silence.
The oranges are waiting to be peeled 
And we are crying at the dreams of snow. 


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