The moon no longer looks like your smile,
Neither my name no longer sounds like your luck,

For my name graced every word you mentioned ,
Made it sound like love till it lost the ability to grace your actions.

I did learn the art of language from my cousin,
She said ifè (love) can be substituted as the verb will.

We used to paint the joker with all of our poetry,
And conclude with making rose flowers bloom without thorns in saying
Mo ni fè rè-
I love you-
I want to do your will
I choose to do your will

Màà sè nkó tó fè
I want to do your will 
I want to do what you love

I want, I want, I choose to be called yours, plant lilies and groom sunflowers on your lips because they’ll remind me of the moonlight, your cupped hands over my waist, and my giggle at your blunt jokes.

But then you chose to render words homogeneous to wind not acknowledging the coriolis effect.

Our love [my will] is all I’m left with now like a scald on my left finger, as you have carefully counted the course of the wind to your favour in February and acted like a penumbra to my path.

They’re different types of habitats, my teacher says;
Right now, I’m joining the river to flow, flow, and flow against tides of a forced will [love].











Photo by SIMON LEE on Unsplash