Amit Parmessur

My mossy trunk gently touching your elbow,
my twisted leaves soothing their dryness;
I sense the magic of your virgin hand –
like ladyfingers playing a most old piano.

I love this rare emotion, feeling
like a condemned bachelor perusing the
pages of a most beautiful bride, finally.
I love this feeling of giving some shade

to your white lips, your scarlet smile,
giving my own heart new oomph.
I think you are a child frolicking
in young snow, waiting for a holy light.

Roots wriggling in pious pain,
wish I had even a fake or broken eye
to steal your grace for myself, like a pink
bud jealously jailed by its eternal sepals.

I don’t feel abandoned anymore,
my destiny being a cracked vase with
the melodious flowers of your memories –
I’ve reinvented my bark by kissing you
so blindly.