Sunday, November 22, 2015



Tears composed your
parting language.

That first day, sunny,
we met, you told
a silly joke.

A row of bulb ants,
itchy, crawled under
blinding laughs.

You left a small part,
too small to notice,
of you in me.

At the noisy airport you left
to pursuit books filled
only with words, packed
and sent before you.
Before me, you
were spent.

Ants only crawled
down my throat.
But you spilled your
words clear
as dews.

P.S.: The only way to improve is to keep writing, some poet/creative writing professor advised.

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