Tuesday, November 11, 2014

On winter's early afternoon

I'll begin by telling you this:
there's something you cannot unveil about me,
It is true you've seen my face before
but you cannot remember where and you know it
I read you by the flicker of your eyelash.

I'll tell you this, I looked after you
when you were hung over, head in the bushes
searching for the end of a cup,
you were busy with a berry to keep the haziness at bay
because you only knew few cures to life:
your feet and your mouth.

I was not sent after you to fend off
the rocks that fell your way
I lifted them because I needed to walk straight
and leave no trace of feet, nor breath behind
the walk you took was yours, pure.

I walked away from you when it rained
I couldn't handle your shivers, like a little bird's
nor your homeless sighs, weighing the drops against
your bare shoulders was not my pleasure
you covered yourself up for fear of melting like sugar-cube in tea
and still you squeezed my heart with thunder

I followed you one book spine to another
and one reading after sunset
I got close enough to pinch your arm,
I needed to feel that you were less than a mirage
but you mistook that for a bee and summer's young love

What happens when I tell you what I'm truly after?
would you run if I told you I was the huntsman
who chased down the trail of your treads
by your shoe size in the snow
not for a heart or a kidney,
but for ears, soft enough to hear
a bed-time tale before it gets dark
on winter's early afternoons.

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