Poetry

It is me, inside & outside,
movement of sensuous self.
Time sails through the mind,
a silken thread unbroken in names.
If only the death would erase the fear.
If only the other self meets my roots
and stir up the inner sap.

Reaching the end,
you tell me to remember
your name to latch on to memories,
to collect all the pieces
of conceptual loss & gains.
How we were fooling ourselves?
Nothing is left between us
to celebrate the dreams.

All the stray thoughts
could not give us insight
we were dusted off from start
to finish in our loneliness.
Once it was a glory
to watch carnations in our eyes,
now I am mourning the death of calenders.