Like Wine from Dismembered Springs of Long Ago

There is wisdom in, spring’s root
Buds of this quivering soul
The night is not couple
It is not loving, it’s
A widow with a body of lust
A ballet of squares
On lazy sunday summer evenings
The fumble of friendship
Till the underwear hits the floor
We hold hands, neither
Saying we are alone, or together
The night swoops in
Cut-throat, like always
Black ribbons flutter
Somewhere, between
My heart and my loins
It’s your hair, oval eyes
We share the sighs
There is ruthlessness, in spring’s buds
That clamour after color-gold
Mementos as heavy as the mesmerizing sun
The skin of spring’s unsuspecting vines.

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