Our love should be in a travelogue.
Where the confession should travel in pages
of states, wires, pixels and dates.
Then the foreign fingers will come and print.
They will take a seat, and they will watch us.
They will try to cut it sometimes.
I try to bite back every dog that attacks.
When you trapped me in the elevator,
you pushed the right buttons.
Rocketing me into your hands.
We’re tied in a knot, and for
That, they called us naughty.
Sleep next to me, you asked me to.
Sleep, so you cannot see them.
He’ll wrap his skin to be my blanket,
like how fingers will draw inside me.
Like how I will read his face marks.
His fingers will strum the signals,
in full speed, I circled his orbit.
He hung me, dizzily in his sky.
You pulled me in,
As I rest on your palm,
Curled in your dreams.
afi ; fire.