smokerings

you cant keep a bit of the sky for days when it rains. wouldn't it have been great, then, to have had a tiny slice of bright blue, a sliver of sunshine, maybe? but then you'd want the leaves, and the way the light glows off their back. and then i'd want the ocean when its cool and dark and still and not roaring, tearing off great hunks of sky and swallowing them like a mad hungry monster.
fish season, vegetable season, flower season, mango season, monsoon season. mosquito season, moth season. the month where the heat seeps into your skin and lungs and the week where the mornings are shrouded in cool mist. november 11th, the perfect day to go to the beach. two days in february, when spring will arrive. one day in june, when it will rain just for the lovers who stay up all night, watching the sky rip and tear and descend around them, who will remember the way it tastes in her hair, at his throat, on their lips. the season of the hatchlings, the season of pink sunsets, the times when all the children come home, dropping like bright ragged leaves from planes, trains, parachutes. the season when the birds fly back to distant lands, refuel at Haleji Lake en route from Siberia to East Africa. wouldn't it be wonderful to fly, like birds do? can they see the sky even when it rains?

i'd live with you
in a heart beat, in an
instant;
just tell me
when
and where.

he said, her hands clutched at his hair and her nose and mouth crushed into his throat. im running out of words, meri jaan, im running out of words.