Twilights fall free fast in September.
Autumnal mornings spent between dark curtains , sleepy, vexed and soundless.
Still on silenced evening beds, your sleep within mine.
Slow noon.
I wake up with a haunting dream of writing in the diasporic.
My room of ocean green scratch a deeper mark
on your walls; there it cuts the filtering light on your face. I count , at once, to suit fine.
I croon.
And feel the sense of the sound, real quick.
Like you do too
with your quivering ambitions that I catch every lost night.
On rooftops, we climb to look beyond spaces of disgust.
Staring at possible shadows, of hunters and the hunted, the thrill and the fright.
Into clouds, before dawn.
Where the floor turns white with your mumbling. We softly whisper words that break the laden crust
of our souls.
Some lives are carved out of Ghibli tales in autumn.
And I fall. Fall beyond reality and respite.
Into the year's consciousness. Into the ocean green of your mark, this, first September.