Memories, like dried petals
Of hibiscuses inside pages of a book
Preserved in layers of myelin
And when the book is opened time to time
You could see the petals of yesteryear, the pollinators
That perched on the nectar trails
And the pollen they all carried
Still look love, you’re here with me,
The flower that never graced,
The interior of the book but became the pages,
Of my life story, the custodian of my future.
You are the cup of tea I sip to forget
How to remember, to be estranged from my past,
Page-dried memories, no longer arousing any feelings.
Migration, that love-compassed, displacement
Of space and time, became my antidote to removing
The slender thorns from my eyes
The only dew I know now, are the types
That never fall but gently cover
The outer shell of the eye, every time
My lips – and my eyes – are my wife’s to moist.