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Artwork by Nilin Amini

I still think of you. How the heart

is an organ with capability to make

the whole body sad. My sad fingers

paint portrait of faceless blue ending

upon the blue of skies. Mood I say. No

sounds wander through them. Next

finger ends choose the yellow of

sunshafts to give distraction a loose

purpose. How it reaches no certainty

like a comma or still life of yellow

autumn leaf between pages. Every

sundown is no more than a home

coming and no less than a hunt

where I am already stabbed. What

is obedience of a body for, opts stay

ringed by a hurting memory. Now

feet and hands numb. Ears husband

a blossom of quick un-sateen songs.

What is longing but a gathering

crazy for something that on pulling

close, turns out to be a dream. How

can I be promised, the constellation

of dark I grease my body shall ferment

a summer. Some blues. Some yellows.

And how they complement each

other like the bluebird on the white

oak. Someone told it is a sickness

in the guise of beauty. Secretly I

zone out for a while to act joy.


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