Night in days
you, my Nightingale
yawning since hours,
not asleep yet.

There are barren wombs
and here you lay
with an infertile heart
where nothing grows
and like a black hole,
nothing stays either.

Tucking the sunlight
but unlike a fairy-light
there’s a moon
dwindling everyday
opaque, high
in the sky
and here you are
like a sunflower
tilted towards the sun
towards the unattainable
beyond your grasp, in other world.

By the time
the sun uncovers itself
you’re paralysed
at crest of the wave,
at bedrest.

Alas! A loss
again, a gain
the silk of your hand
snatched away, ripped apart
a feel, a fall
shadow stalks, silence talks
blank calls, napthalene balls
curtain reigns, shimmering complains
tiny teeth, giant grease
night in days
you, my Nightingale.


Source of featured image: j van cise photos on

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