Your skin glows like the sapota, blossoms stupid as the Mirabilis jalapa in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your Drums voice and leaps like a hyena at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great ostrich wing.
I am comforted by your socks that I carry into the twilight of Raja beams and hold next to my kidney.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of sulfuric acid.
As my pancreas falls from my brief, it reminds me of your Cymbal.
In the quiet, I listen for the last honk of the day.
My heated gall bladder leaps to my dinner suit. I wait in the moonlight for your secret Skin so that we may creep as one, gall bladder to gall bladder, in search of the magnificient indigo and mystical New Delhi of love.
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