your body is probably listening to sleep's serenade
a boy sits in the belly of a lonely room
turns a muezzin on a blank page
and calls your body as his pen pays obeisance
he writes—
i would like to write you into my favourite song
stretch every rhythm into my ears
till my head becomes a clubhouse with a repeated song—you
but a favourite song submit to replacement
i will treat you like my body:
i love it, yet reckless with it—
is that why the poet says love is blind?
when you wake up in the morning
and you find your body too seared to exhude joy
find this poem.
you're now incomplete like a crescent,
you'd crawled out of your-self
and reading this would make you whole again.
Pixabay.com