You carve the arcs
of my brows
with bluish palettes
of tattered chloroforms

the dribbles of your
watercolors drip
in red, blues and yellows
and fall like follicles
of my scalp

the paintings of your September promises
melt like Indian murals
around my mouth,
and trail till
the ellipses of my navel,

I try to
lace the pilgrims of my tongue
around the beads in your breast,
and hear them shatter
one by one
nameless stars
above my spine.

our hands whimper
and stay right there,
behind our curtain’s

like mandolins filled
with morning marijuana,
the lips of our love
burned kissing fire,

until we braided
every part of us,
in the melodies of our moans
and whispers…

– Yeshwant Sridhar