I used to be proud of certain pensive values
Imbued by some long, fleshy nights of cyclic drama of my tantric head and those three eyes and two hands and his legs and my mouth.
The drool of Shiva sketches on my table. The drool of an endless journey finally meeting an end.
Lips were stitched apart and the alphabets exploded.
The three eyes were closed and one was lost.
I became silent and he was nowhere to be found.