Word Portrait of My Beloved
You hold the merits of hurrying up
And slowing down at your own pace,
The witty aside of parting my waters
And chasing all meaningful locusts
Into the way my heart chose to break
In its own godless Egypt of a body.
The myriads of thoughts you stir
At night, in-between days, into the flick
Of the hand that writes its wrist
And the spring of ink you placed
Into the tips of my fingers.
I need you at a safe distance,
At the end of the world, where time
Feels generous to the likes of us,
Away from the occasional splash
Of bad taste that trims the hem
Of our daily compromised attires.
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