The only innocent love
I have been able to harbor over the years
is my ache for art.
I say ache, because it’s this
cursed hunger that roars in me
whenever I come across an old book,
to spread out its two arms
and bury my face between its arms
just to sniff the satisfaction of old page and dust.
It is the lack of control
over my own body
whenever I spot a mirror, and
lose myself to the music in my head,
like I can choreograph a routine
purely on some music, no one has heard.
It is the need to create that music
no one has ever heard.
Some days I try to bury myself
in the ground,
brew mud around me,
raise sapling purely from
my extending roots,
just to know I still belong here.
Just to divide my ever growing love
to things that matter,
so that one day, when I am
bankrupt of my love,
I will live like a pauper
I did not live from
hand to mouth.
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