Sharmada Shastry

When lips began gathering dust,

When lips began gathering dust,
pale winters sewn together
flit across the bare walls

We don’t talk. Words find home in the corners of my mouth that can be birthed into being
only in a moment of love. We let the windows rattle and crack open the midnight moon
onto our bed. It is one AM and you hold my shivering jaws together in your palms.
The cold bites away into my bones, denuded of flesh. You excavate your pocket and
fish out a half-smoked cigarette. We break into a smile at the same instance and giggle
like children building sand-castles by the sea.

We look for the taste of water.

We look for anything that can keep us warm
I pull out old sweaters from the shelves,
keepsakes from bygone lovers.

You look around the room,
find nothing
but yourself.

You have given yourself to me. Even in a world that could leave one jaded
and wandering, you leave a parched me tasting dew drops that fall from the underbelly
of a leaf. You teach me things I wouldn’t have learned in the violence of things around me.
We learn how to love in its absence. We learned how to give, by letting go.

As rooms linger in memories,
midnights don’t open
up to
alleys of desire.

Minutes later,
we find ourselves
buried in
skin
bits of teeth
storm
whispers
apologies
and
shadow lines.

As morning peels away the night,
the rain softens out the hardness
we have built overnight.

It’s time to leave.
We have bled into each other.

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