Poetry

Time
was moving without wheels.

Not a match. I
don't exist. Anonymous.
You were also not same
as I lost you.

Black walls.
You will kiss them
for a promise.

Your lips, wrapping
the wounds, like bandages.

The bruises smell
like poppies.

Not thirsty. Still
I revert to the theme of
dry lake.

Are you going to
shut the eyes of moon?