Love begins in metaphor,
And ends in an anecdot.
Like the soft song of a bee 
excited to taste honey for the first time.
Like the garland adorning the neck of a goddess who tames the prayers of a girl child according to the norms of patriarchy.
Like the song of cuckoo 
who is not sure about its lineage 
and a home it owns.
Like the sweetness of an apple in the sourness of mother tongue 
Like the desperation of a river 
on the October eyelids to meet the sea
Like the accent of a mouth 
not tired if kissing 
Like the shovel of an archaeologist 
in search of a hidden golden city 
Like the secret encounter of an angel 
with a human being, sharing recipe 
of forbidden elixir cake
Like the magic of lemon pickle 
on your tongue after a Italian dinner
Like a pebble kept by a mermaid as her namesake after losing her legs to a fisherman
Like the sticky candy on the molar of a childless mother's god
Like the hesitance of a beggar's hunger 
taking a sip of lime soda in summer 
Like the cursive of a hunter's toe 
while waiting for a prey 
Like the ego of a man who won't apologise 
for stepping on your feet in a metro 
Like the terrible jokes following a 
office worker's weekend drinking party
Like revolution throwing up under 
an acidic sky when the leaders 
rephrased its objectives
Like how a father cuts a pomegranate ignoring its ancestry 
Like an insomniac's multi coloured , 
unending dream
Like the divine shame of a sapphic writer describing the mole on the breasts of a star
Like the itching of a needle in hands 
of a marble seamstress 
Like the nude feet of a bullet before digging two consecutive holes : 
on in forehead, other as a grave.
Like a blind poem turning into a death note.

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