let’s shut the blinds and make true love

steel doors that bar,
wrist chains of exiles –
crippled by distance, abstinence,
and fear — their view dissolves
from our tired and fishy eyes,
as we lay like prudent cats
after fucking like stray dogs,
not giving a single thought
about parents, or rubber.

loverse

walking on the side of the highway
she feels the ring on his left hand.
they take little strides to where they met
two days ago and forgot that time was passing;
clocks were everywhere, and so was their love –
scattered on the bed, in the living room,
in that one shared oatmeal spoon.
he guides her back to their love shed,
the lights are now turned down, giving only
his blue silhouette to her young and dreamy irises.
two days ago they were teary –
not of despair, but of happiness –
while he was plucking his guitar
and singing,
reminding her of eight-dollar engagement rings.
and she can’t help but crawl to him
with her loving crouches; now the sheets are messed up
and the pillows are upturned.
she lovingly gazes at the full moon of his face;
while the drizzling rain pours outside,
she plants a kiss on his lips;
he makes a ring of fingers ’round her waist
that would move like a slender grape vine,
and twist for them to coalesce.
she will be chuckling
until the evening’s too deep,
until they may not catch the train, or see another day.
she takes a last whiff of his hair;
he wriggles with her lips on his neck.
she takes her clothes and combs her hair
that smells like his breath.
then outside, the city lights shine against their shadow.
standing by the commuters,
a goodbye kiss parts the lovers,
but it promises another morning.
where on the sunrise, they again meet,
and she, filled with sugar smiles
will walk on the highway,
feel the ring on his left hand,
which firmly holds the promises
that they will keep PUREBER.

days dragging by

days dragging by –
going on, it fortifies love;
passing by, gives ache to crumpled hearts –
pulled apart by distance and miles,

the setting of the sun (when they’re apart) is a stab of knife –
another curtain of star dims the horizon,
(at daylight, only sight of one another)

– yet the dusk wound, the blistering pain of the dusk wound,
huddles the lover into one corner, at his midnight:
there, ache bounds all loose love,
binding misery and longing and nostalgic euphoria –

love, o love:

tender love at the end of the day that begins another;
swift love that keeps them running;
bones growing and bones aching;
sprinting hearts, till they fly and unwind the sun’s revolve!

– till days have become still,

till days have stopped their dragging –

and love’s become an altar,

a time marker
surpassing time.