Your portrait is hanging,
on the bister-painted wall
in my bedroom
not a speck of dust
covering it, no
I clean it everyday.
Your blue sanguine eyes
follow my shadow
all day long,
it knows me the best
it has witnessed my tears
falling down onto the wooden floor
and bouncing back, fragmented
into a thousand broken dreams,
your eyes have flipped through my life journal
and dipped itself into my blood,
it knows me and reminds me
of who I am.
You have listened to my quivering tune,
when I cried.
That curve painted on your face
(and covering your entire face)
donates strength to me
it doles out the entire universe's force
and keeps me alive.
You portrait is painted
at the back of my head,
but I want to touch it
and caress it
till my fingers bleed.
No comments:
Post a Comment