The sun bleeds as it dies. Magentas, crimsons, lilacs spread across the sky. “A variant of the riddle goes: A pair of yarn balls / that can reach the heavens.” I skewed the metaphor. You say it doesn’t matter. You like the slant rhyme.
See? You wouldn’t have a problem in my language. You should find refuge in my foreign tongue.
Crystals in your soul melt in sorrow’s heat. Your soul’s windows cannot contain this flood—it overflows.
A word in my mouth offered comfort: mahal. My love is not expensive. Comforted in my offering, your variant of the riddle went: A pair of yarn balls / that can reach my depths.
In bed, intertwined, peering into you arouses a curious musing: Can I ever see myself?
You try to trace my face with words. You claim my color is brown, when brown does not fit my skin. You just do not have enough words…
You say there is calm in the eye of the storm, even in the storms you brewed yourself.