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poetry_fictionDay 15:
Your eyes are sad and beautiful
like the pictures of flowers in a textbook.
Day 16:
And love—a couple of nights
like rare stamps. To stroke the heart
without breaking it.
Day 17:
But a great love begins here, sometimes,
with the sound of dry branches snapping in the dead forests.
Day 18:
All these make a strange
dance rhythm. But I don't know who's dancing to it
or who's calling the tune.
Day 19:
My eyes were prophets then, but my body had no idea
what it was going through or where it belonged.
Day 20:
stand by my side and dry your face now
and smile as if in a family photo.
Day 21:
May you find lasting peace,
the living in their lives, the dead
in being dead.
Your eyes are sad and beautiful
like the pictures of flowers in a textbook.
Day 16:
And love—a couple of nights
like rare stamps. To stroke the heart
without breaking it.
Day 17:
But a great love begins here, sometimes,
with the sound of dry branches snapping in the dead forests.
Day 18:
All these make a strange
dance rhythm. But I don't know who's dancing to it
or who's calling the tune.
Day 19:
My eyes were prophets then, but my body had no idea
what it was going through or where it belonged.
Day 20:
stand by my side and dry your face now
and smile as if in a family photo.
Day 21:
May you find lasting peace,
the living in their lives, the dead
in being dead.
