Thursday, 29 June 2017

Ink

My fluttering pages knew, for each time,
You walked through a rue singing its song, for,
Each time, you dived into afflictions,
Bloating your palate, with,
Walking the grievous, yet ravishing the sublime,
You inked me with all the times, you,
Crystallised yourself with the silhouette of others,
Just how a barista demands for the milk,
To dance its way into the coffee's life,
You inked me with all the times, you,
Morphed beautifully when autumns touched you,
And flushed everyone in all the tinges that shaped you,
You inked me with all the times, you,
You were a rain-laden, lone, dark cloud,
Efflorescing a flower in me, each time you poured,
I came to you with folded edges, and bleeding covers,
With blankness in pages, you coloured me up,
With the simple, and the difficult,
With the together, and the alone,
With the Van Gogh, and the Hemingway,
With the stories, and the slags, all the same,
I came to you with haemorrhaging lines,
And you wrote to me, wrote in me,
Inking in me, an anchor forever.





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Love,
A.

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