Your Beard Smells of Old Smoke

"Your beard smells of old smoke", you'd once said.


I wish I could have told you of all the times, every time I rewound the poetry in the skin of a singular sentence
I wish I could have told you, how your hair smells of night jasmine; how a man of orchids had given in to the essence of a night jasmine's flourish
I wish I could have told you of the monochrome desires bleeding in the heart of the neon citylights and pastel lives; pastels have always been exaggerated, monochromes misunderstood


Beyond glass existences and pretended conversations, lies an entirety of restless unsettling essays; unpenned scribbles that made nightmares look lullabies
Beyond plastic flesh and ceramic bones, lies the whole of faceless demons and nameless fears; skeletons lurk in dark, blank spaces


In a war of similars and congruents, differences drew first blood
Between candids and corpses, second chances hung from semicolons


I could have resurrected and called it Renaissance
I could have scripted good mornings in goodnight kisses



But, this time, I'll let it all out, at a full stop

I am tired of beginnings that end

What's In a Name

Where had she come from
Where was she leaving to

What did she call herself in the silences

Who was she beyond and beneath her


I knew nothing; none of it at all



And yet, the eyes met
No comets fell
No meteors rose
And yet, the rains lashed the feeble city lives
And yet, the silences thundered the voices in the head
Not a moment stood still
Not a word was spilled

And yet, there was poetry in the blood and in the bones
And yet, there was life and there was death, wrapped in the skin

Where'd the Stories Go

Where do you think the stories go, at the end of it all

Dawns always make good mornings
Dusks often are buried alive in obituaries

But then, what happens to the stories when the lives in them leave them for dead

Are they buried, burnt, or, just sprinkled in the blank spaces, between pretended existences
Who tells the tales of the stories