the lost poem

messily remapped,
a momentous list of moments in the form of a poem

we embroider strings between faces and places,
demarcate ink-stained spaces
of areas plagued with another’s footsteps,
paths traversed in timeless coversation,
routes lined

with ice cream, melted
between cursive, between cups, & canvases
between tongues curled around the Language of
Loneliness, of Loveliness,
of paper slotted in paper –
at least two weeks late.

we make homes out of cake-tiered old houses,
a river stirring the green and black –
Russian Rouletting the false dichotomy between
legality and art. on napkins,
the faded lipstick of unknown lovers
exhale into this unknown.

you flower all these seats,
coffee-tint every word;

we practise cartography,
engineer opportunity
colour-code memory

transcribe : choreography,
unvisited cardiology,
our lack of chronology !

this house, though still unmapped;


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