There are boys who
throw stones on frogs 
And there are boys 
who are frogs, 
waiting for princess' kiss.
You are the stone.
And am not a princess.
Am a wound attached 
to the eyes of a late child.
You are the a psychic who 
doesn't know future. 
Your clumsiness pulls me 
out of gravity, 
a custom so soft, 
that it makes exhausting 
a little beautiful.
You dip your fingers 
in moons grave, while 
I turn in my bed,
when sleep is a deceitful act.
I laugh with bruised lips, 
on your saturated jokes,
with a reverence 
I can't gift anyone else.
You are the shoes 
monsoons are afraid to spoil,
in which my filty legs move 
freely, with a frictionless ease.
You are the home, 
pirated from my pain, 
where heart shaped chairs 
are arranged in perfect cycle.
You wear calloused time 
as your coat in my dreams,
that is whenever clouds 
collapse with grief unsettled. 
So, rain is a white basin.
Am the frog.
You are the stone.
Abandonment is a kiss.

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