I write because I read. I read because I write.
every morning the peacocks call,wild and free on their private ball,out of the trees after rains fall,a sight for all, a sight for all.are they big, small? i do not know.my tea's friend is the house sparrow,unafraid of my breath's flow solet the wild go, let the wild go. — 30.07.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All… Continue reading wild ball: a monotetra
He who hesitates is lost. Unless you are a handkerchief,a ponytail, a forgotten umbrella,a violet hairpin, some princesspaper dolls, my first pair of gold earrings.Those that were once mine.I could build a castle, a mega city, a hydroponic building of lost things thanks to my hesitant hands. — 29.07.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo… Continue reading the lost city
my palms can hold your hand at night, i wonder how they reached so many miles, combed some bay andthe west sea, with a floater. i am sure. probably. you have ten fingers butfelt like twenty in a piano. you ticklemy toes and make my heart flutterlike a feather from a cheerful sparrow. mornings. i… Continue reading sparrowed mornings
after Alice Walker and Zora Neale Hurston Blue. Perhaps baby blue. The shade you gift a baby boy in a shower that does not involve a drop of water. But I'm talking about the July sky, here, in my corner of earth, is rarely blue. Mostly grey. The difference was the absence of flying tins.… Continue reading where are the planes
born in the era of wide-legged pantshis limbs - bamboos - his hands - cloudto touch. his eyes,thin eyes, disappearwhen he smiles. he dances, sings without juke, Elton and Michaelcroon inside his heart.no wonder, no wonderhe is my darlingdad. — 18.06.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons… Continue reading darling
means green leavesor wilted ones for roots waiting to be buried in a new soil (after breakingitself in half to tasteone fine sunray). meansthe distance betweentomorrow's to-do list and last night cricket'spillow-in-tears. means some more carbon dioxideexhaled after a brief tripinside your lungs, one breath, and anotheruntil your flesh fingersmelt with the old roots of… Continue reading now
Curl in your tummy closer to your chest,ribbon each second,let your lungs rest.Closer to your chest, consider each night'sblank page mess where youribbon each second,lasso the closest moon,blink with two fireflies, thenlet your lungs restbefore your ears hum with tomorrow's yolk-sun. — 18.06.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under… Continue reading dawn’s affair
my brain, moresmudge than wrinkled-thinking-machine,eye-to-eye — last week's cold coffee & I — where is the milkin this sugarlessgoodbye. we're lockedbut we're also the key. there is a story withinthese cracks in timid tremble float, afloat.up, up, andaway. — 15.06.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives… Continue reading can you catch me?
my first dhal on our seven-hour train ride— spices still strangers to my soya-sauced-lips. a firework to my palette yet, you were there. with a camera taking notes of each knot on my fore- head, every twitch of my nose. i knew. i need not to glaze myself in honey to be enough for you.… Continue reading Two years taste like
