listless
long, drawn out summer days kiss the nape of my humid flesh breathe Is it enough to exist? Is it enough to write letters I will never send? I mourn the loss of you. Colors pass over the lids of my eyes cool themselves in flutters You light up the night, behind my lids, and my womb aches. It is a tiring masquerade running down the streets brightly aged by love's glow and I mourn you. My lips on the cool glass of store windows I drift off to a weary sleep exchanging correspondence in waves.
For Varun Marthur
