You tell me about 
snow, sea, and sun.
And I wither in the agony 
to know more,
to be lured like an old sailor 
who is afraid of seaweeds.
The sun squint at us, 
a boyish look, 
just another practical joke 
the universe playing on us.
You are that air mask 
I hold after three nightmares.
So I ask you to breathe with me.
You are my first person obituary.
So, I beg you to burn 
an incense for me.
You are a conch shaped room.
So I press my ears on your walls.
I am afraid to spill my skies over you,  
for you are the shade of blue 
everyone romanticizes.
So, I gift you hyacinths.
You are afraid to seal your poems 
with sapphire, for you know 
I will wear it in my neck.
So, you ask me to forget.
I read you slow,
You read me fast.
I water mornings
You pamper mournings.
But, we are silhouettes of 
the same candle a grave holds.
We are sheets of coal 
over an old outdated weapon.
This means, 
there is only one way: 
remembering,
not forgetting.
You confess that
your hands are not 
strong enough for battles. 
Not tough to keep poems warm.
I hold them close:
the feathers of an exotic bird,
the softness of a celestial feline,
the shield that can kill,
the a dagger that can kiss.
And looking at your hands,
God was humbled.

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