Birds clothe the morning with the edifice of their calls.
we build our worlds one storey after another.
In the mettalic breath of a whiplash bark
we drown our conversation. hope without time.
and knowing before watching.
our sentences emerge already formed.
like the past wrapped in blue songs.
and you finding solace in the brown light
with deep eyes.
what happens when our incompletenesses collide.
our sickle moons bleed into each other.
slow inkblots clouding our tomorrows.
maybe that is when the colours come together
to part. like two strangers who share a momentary silence,
not understanding their nostalgia for the future-
the inartistry of their not having met –
a moonless painting of the infinitely colourful night
and critics discuss the shades.
the broad brush strokes.
the masks that veil the lives of others