You call it Colosseum inside the epicurean infields.
in the little mornings
we lived in vesicles.
We talked of everything else
except our resemblances.
I was still learning, “Oui, non. désolé”
Parlez quelque chose.
But, you learnt to widen your mouth,
Speaking all the syllables, aspirated.
Nothing was more funnier,
when you try to say “excuse me” in our language.
Summer cotton mango leaves,
Blue icicles, sunflower oil seeds,
Varnished paleness of vapory flowers,
The tardis flying in the continents of switching temperatures.
Cold feet crawls along the tapholes
Invisible, like crimson in snowflakes
Clouds in cerulean.
Fizzling light of one ending cheroots,
was enough to make fireflies on the staircase.
We climbed, thinking of baobab.
When Cannes stars had bronchitis,
The cold wind took a different road
We should catch it before it moves to the Love Valley
Share it equally, chew it before it melts.
When I see you again,
I will insert my fairytales in your chimera.
I’ll return again, as a stranger you dye to meet.