After “Phlora”


i remember every second before [the] dimming trails of the moon
as your pale fingers caress my lips & i become short of metaphors &
love [canticles]. you told me to stare deep into the dripping desires
hiding in your droughty brown iris.
all i saw was a [circus] of conflagrant pleasures
& i burn my aching heart every time i think of you,
your name & your swarthy skin. phlora, i don’t know how to gift girls
— flowers or write love ballads in a cold & haunting harmattan dawn
but i can kiss your forehead & wash your fragile feet with fluids of
fervent feelings. i know you want to visit the arctic ocean & listen to
her sailing whispers & whimpers — you loved the wind flow [there] &
the moans of the somersaulting riptides. they remind you of those
nights we made love & promise one another eternity as we unclog
our black sweat-soaked bodies to the silent room. i remember how
i used to love you singing like the nocturnal nightingale & every verse
was an elixir. every mid-february — you claim my [lucid] lips into yours
& mold goosebumps all over my skin. i used to live in solitudes
before i met you downtown — the day you were standing by a block
[side] with thick wisps eloping the brown cigar in your hand. we stared
at each other for hours & that was when i knew i found a panacea to
my ailing & fractured heart. i remember; every moment on the train—
the soft & dawdling kisses, the unruffled moans, the way we flipped &
skimmed through every page of pablo neruda’s love poems & learnt
how to touch ourselves in a thousand ways without saying a word. or
[without] calling each other’s names as the wintry wind flee by. phlora,
my darling! i have travelled round the earth, in the air, water & on the
moist lands & [yet] no woman’s beauty surpasses the aesthetics of
your look. & i know you loved the nights before the glimmering glares
of my grandma’s [lantern] as i read to you, my solacing corpus of love.




Photo by Michael & Diane Weidner on Unsplash