Sometimes, he lives me more than I live my days.
I watch how he watches my mind of washed pebbles,
Of leaves and canopies,
Falling like feathers, from ancient trees.
He unfolds me, a creased paper.
Makes boats out of wasted moments.
Soon his room has a pyramid of paper boats.
These days he makes shadows out of my eyelids.
1 comment:
beg your pardon ma'm - i think ur writing skills have improved over time. can we have some more pls?
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