The Silence of My Voice

Why, peter out from labelling my opaque coffee so sinister, when it's your breaths that constantly obscure its fidelity to me. Same breaths, your husky breaths, which wrote stories like Braille over my shoulders I still read. And stop secreting behind the book when you clearly are thinking about licking the wetness that has cascaded down my throat and is snuggly leaning off my cleavage - which would still blush of you. And my chest would swell from the slightest prompting of your voice. Stop rummaging hands through your hair! They're tethering my heart and lungs in multitudes of knots inside my chest. I remember the time my hands shuddered from tugging at your hair as they perused through all your apprehensions. Did you just scrutinise me why I think you did? I know. I remember this song, too. It's the one you raged out on my throat to dampen the fire in it, which smouldered with a flame, but no smoke. And your foxy eyes, are always a different colour - darker, whenever y...

And this time there's clamor in the silence, Clamor, people christen as deafening, for they, Perpetually dwindle from hearing the clamor, But that's what average people do, don't they? Because the universe is bereft of your actuality, but you, Know, of the universe's survivals, And the air has eaten the cinnamon from the froth of the tea, Not because it seems frosty now, But the air is itself flushed with the pong, Which prompts you of oblivious reminiscence,  The unprecedented warmth of two sets of pearls against, Freezing cheeks, somehow vanquishing, Because no matter why you think the sunlight's dusty, It barely parades the dance, of the sole wit why they shed,  Is they're indomitable in their way of thought for blemishing you,  When is it, will you understand, How colourful a death can seem? Fall Until next, .... Ak.