One leaf, one dream, one night—

Standing in the corner there, I tripped

a little more, the wind kissed my bare

shoulders, drowsy—igniting fires between

green woods, I almost painted him in

the water bubbles.

But pebbles only make noise, hitting

in tear-fear-drop, coiling under smoke—

I got stamped like the stem between

two leaves, perhaps he’s just a dream.

A feverish dream between hushed

whispers, in July we met in retro—

Here in fall, I draw the intricate patterns

through my messy art,

he’s just a dream,

he’s just a dream,

marvellously peeking out of the shadows.

Wind blows, the night gets darker—

so are his almond eyes, I almost painted

him in blue, in spring we met in a remote

plane, in the summer we’re the music

of golden heatwave, so we closed off

searching for the sky.

At the deepest lake, there’s fine snow

cracking, crawling, gnawing at our feet—

His voice came in whispers for me,

I drew the patterns up and down,

We dove headfirst into the water,

without knowing to kick back first.

One morning, one picture, one momentum

stepping up on the edge, he’s the waking

dream, slowly drifting away—kissing

bare desires to burn, we were strangers

at first, in the ivory hope of salvation glory

we became a little more—

than strangers.

Desires are like dissolved rain,

Clustering like hope, lingering in skin

more than you need, in the scrolling of

leaves, we become violet to rosemary—

What were we?

What were we?

I still say, he’s just a dream.

It’s a storm before the rainbow,

It’s the summerhouse before the fall,

In the deep sudden stroke, I suddenly

woke up, gasping for air—my hands

are still stained in death paint.

He drifted away like the dying music,

It’s only me in dark, passing out in

passionate smoke, we pass on each side

but he whispered, “We’re no longer

friends but strangers.”

In the long night, desires wane as broken

chords, my eyes—mirroring the death

of shadows, I drank, I draw the wreath

of ivory gleams, the patterns cling

to each other as sweating leaves.

We’re strangers indeed in messy street,

But I’m the art, I’m the artist of brutal aesthetics.

— 14th October, 2024.