When you enter the palace,

I catch a breath of air and plunge into the deepest waters of the world’s singing sea.

I let my thoughts take a silent shape of me while I stare at your mouth and hands and skin,

Hearing the lost echoes of my once upon a time words.

Eyes drink your color, heart’s racing, and blood’s thickening

Still, there’s no breathing…

It is the teardrop of truth into reality, into me, when death seems but a song of continuity…

You are the fifth shortest season,

You are the timeless street walker bringing life to each tall forgotten corner of things.

You are the unfinished book of words that need safety to reach each other into a desperate completeness.

You are the ever distant painting into which I send my senses beyond those contours, looking for the perfect blend of light and darkness which gives a story to every window, every curtain, every lamp, if I had the words and knew when to put them in.

You are the essence of the stories that draw roads behind them and lure me in.

You are my dialogues in need for repetition which bring laughter in the essence of joy, like life.

You are the pages of the histories of the world when you kiss my hair from above, covering me at your chest.

You almost turn to leave and I feel the scream being born inside of me.

You linger on the tips of my fingers,

On every roof top, on every shade of every leaf,

In the back sound of every sound.

Still, the palace is  quiet like we have never touched.

All that is sacred comes on air and leaves in silence.

M.

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