Write me about things

Ask me how I feel about you,
And I don’t know.
Everything goes blank;
Minds working feverishly fast.
You come in slowly, from beyond rainbows, unicorns and plucky nightmares.
See.
When you look at yourself in the mirror, you must only see the fat?
And it is visible.
The little shadows that fall over each other, darkening your chocolate skin
Move like oceans on your body.
The breasts move like little cups of liquid flesh
And after a thousand hours together,
In a strange room,
I don’t notice you.
When you write,
Borrowing metaphors from the city,
You make me run the length of tram lines,
Smelling fruits a season before,
Imbuing all your little spices In the space between your lines.
You make everyone else
A little less beautiful, in embrace.
I haven’t seen you cook,
But I imagine you concentrate,
Without creasing your brows,
Humming songs of the old man.
I imagine the chaos of the kitchen patiently balancing
Your organised mind.
There’s a thin film of whiskers above your upper lip,
One you are proud of,
One that tastes a little like stale cherries in the refrigerator.
You must be tired of analogies.
I imagine you
Sitting patiently
At the bus stop,
Content in arriving early;
As always.
When you pick up the bill in restaurants,
I enjoy the odd glances
Measuring you in straight lines.
But you, little lady,
Are all curves.

I don’t notice anything new.
Just texts of my broken pieces glued back together
At midnight.
You look pretty in that little top
I always call black,
And a little dense mascara on your eyes.
But I don’t care.
When I walk up to you,
Late and wet
And hoping for an escape,
I just see you.
You must be very broken too;
I get glimpses sometimes,
When you ask me insecure questions.
But there are other times,
When you skip from country to country,
Tying mythologies on a string,
Winking proudly at your knowledge of kinks,
And being wistful about bad dates.
When you narrate world histories,
Unmindfully,
While role playing in crowded book stores
And refusing cigarettes
After every peg of rum,
You become a giant person.
And I wonder how you fit In your little frame.

 

 

-Shakya

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