He always leaves some things behind with me...
Which slowly grow into infected insects of his voice.
They creep around my newly painted wall and gape at it
With flickering eyes, just the way he would. They skitter around
My bed languidly, drooping memories over pillows and
They muffle back in the book he wanted. Or the jacket I never gave back...
It plays with my words that mostly reek of dreams and grease of men
And puppeteers them along with Kali in a watchful whirl of some bleak music
That keeps playing on my phone.
Just at the crack of night when I light tired cigarettes
And search hopelessly for more of him...
Voices swerve into my ears and become him. Mirrors can see it.
But sadly I cannot.
Come inside a smokey room. With a paper and pen. Incense and cigarettes, flowers and water. They all go together, too well.
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