The slender- tender words in that last letter,
skeletal tacos of memories. A mumble, a jumble,
a crescendo of incoherent sentences
silences shriek, limpid eyes peek;
my knuckles erode, rubbing away those sad traces.
Utterly exhausted of running mad races.
Cogwheels churning, fires still burning.
Lying on the page in languid grace,
the words of that last letter, suddenly resurrect,
stand erect, remove sleep kinks from their eyes
and fly away, like a horde of migratory birds
to a distant land.
But not before,
yes, not before I have read the lips
of these gaunt- faced words; tear- streaked too.
Like a ventriloquist’s sibilant hiss
hinting about that last tryst, and that lingering kiss.
Ah, that late night farewell rendezvous.
A scream ricochets, ‘you love me still, don’t you?”
The fire rages on, and oftentimes, I am still on the rack,
but hadn’t I marked myself safe,