Q u i d a m

We don't cry, we (don't) bleed

My heart has become as hard as city lights.
 
Loom over to crash upon the pale blue starlight,
 
drive on the left, convincing a good lie—how it is
 
the truth, in the sharp-painted shadows:
 
So I built a wall along the mournful cries and kisses over
 
tune that I couldn't recall now, said he.
 
 

 
But in the eyes of women, hands are losing
 
in grey hair, alone in the melodic silence:
 
I recalled standing in the room with a wave.
 
While travelling to the blue vault, I wait in the middle
 
once more, trapped between space and
 
mirrors, waiting for tomorrow, she said.
 
 

 
My heart has become as light as a feather,
 
hollowness vibrated, a passage of time hurried
 
away in the dancing night, smashed the lilies
 
With broken railings, my language of hurt never
 
rock with thrashing, swashing, and needling tears:
 
but speaks about split streets, where

A man in terror spots blood, he said.
 
 

— 16th September, 2023