Islam Our eyes delicately touch as you wave by the door. The shirt you wear is dyed the colour of pomegranates. The smile you toss is sweet as a brief flutter of petals. Yet our lashes part. We never pass the cold moment when my limbs shudder tense, when the promise that soaked our greeting is spat aside as though it were something rancid. I am lanced within a scarlet pith. It is networked with pestilent strands. My pulp blackens with decomposition. My spoiled skin is flushed with desire that must vanish, for your caress might bite this toxic rind, and your ripe heart decay, fruitless as mine.
Reason for writing:
Falling infatuated with someone I dare not touch.
Birth sign: Not entered
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