Those salty drops
walking in a hurry
to the contours of face..
eyes could be a prison
those translucent beings
incriminating goosebumps
on a faraway land
of hand
the trail is a distance
in time
strands of hair
get stuck with them
right where the tip
of the eyebrow ends
they spread to the ears
with those strands
like a flood
with no water
the corner of lips
stretched this moment
catch them in time
right when they fall
from cheekbones
Ah, the forehead looks plain
it's perhaps happiness
because the frowns
never shy away from
being witnesses
to these
small little salty
prisoners.
No comments:
Post a Comment