Incongruent letters, rambling with
Fervent ardor written past twelve midnight.
Cashmere thoughts turned to
Flimsy odes;
What should I write of?
My heightening crescendo of
Oblique nightmares,
With February spells of
My beloved’s stealth
Into the inmost realms?

Yellow trams,
Snaking through the city’s veins:
Your windows are the worldview
Of my half-hearted sanguinity,
Layered on shadows of restless clamour.
Your music is like the unrestrained
Melody of my unbridled desires.
I have read between your punctuated footnotes,
Your placid whispers;

My initials are written all over
With careless tresses, tousled by winds.
My love is infinite like the twine
Woven with beads of Spring-time rain.


18 February 2015


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