I’ve no clothes, two days became a week.
You were sitting with me on concrete carpet, 
on a market blanket full of dust and fur. 
Borrowed headphones on my shoulders,
salty air and goosebump silence.

The rose must have got trapped in my window last week
 – It closed and died. My bed was covered by mouldy leaves. 

I lied. You weren’t with me
like my mother,
like my priest
like the zigzag on my wrist in marker pen.

If you leave early I go off,
– mould unressurected. Sweaty palms on a phone.  
Burning ear and a cry that summons my dog,

as it gets dark at 9 o’clock.

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3 Comments

  1. June 16, 2017 / 4:49 pm

    You leave the angst, the existential trauma very poignantly. Anand Bose from Kerala

  2. July 15, 2017 / 8:08 am

    Weeⅼl liike Mommy stated, after wwe lօvee
    each other and love the worlԀ that Jesus died for, that?s a
    type of worship. Ꮃhen wwe think about God andd listеn to the sedrmon or in Sunday Coⅼlege, that?s a
    mannr of worshipping as ɑ rеsult of we aree stսdying
    how great God iѕ and He likes that. Or once we sit round and inform each other what
    the greatеst things about God aгe. You understand how much
    you want listening to fօlks say how sensible
    or cutee you boys are? Effеctivelу God likes when we talk togethеr about how great he is.?
    Daⅾdy answerеd.

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