His darkness stands 
like a light, that you 
mistake it for a star,
And try to follow it , 
in search of an absent treasure.
His grief is multicoloured, 
like a rainbow, 
and it intrigues you 
to a point that you turn all white.
His happiness is a new eclipse
the calenders forgot to record,
so you let your pious blood 
evaporate into a shade of yellow.
His voice, a siren pulling you out 
from death to a diamond shore,
sneaks into your sleep like 
the favorite word of a polyglot.
His legs runs in search 
of butchered dreams of yours,
promising to cure the 
sanity world gifted you.
He doesn't know 
what to do with 
his hands, and 
so does you.
So you hide yours in books.
And he lends them to angels.
You both hold each other then.
Like two bruised fruits
clinging to the same branch,
afraid to let go, 
afraid to ripen alone.
You dive into the 
depths of his darkness,
where the light is a distant memory,
like a false ritual.
You hum along his words, 
like an atheist singing psalms,
while he leaves metaphors 
here and there, 
in teacups,
in curtain loops,
in gardens,
in graves.
The world looks at you,
amazed by the beauty
of brokenness.

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