Your words wither and fall,
just like leaves,
paving my lips and my skin with their death –
never pictured myself to be
a graveyard of sort,
but GOD! that feels obscenely good…

I rake them
(your words)
and I turn them into yellow scented piles of memories
in which my thoughts can wallow,
like a bunch of crazy teenagers
just escaped from school,
eager to borrow the fragrance of your mind.

From there,
from the middle of a random mound of words,
I like to stare at the sky
and marvel childishly about its blue endlessness
and about the way some stray sunbeam reflects itself
in the humblest of surfaces
(my eye)
imbuing it with the purest of lights.

I guess that would explain
why during fall I am unable
to burn the piles of raked leaves in my yard…



© Liliana Negoi

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