Poetry

Was busy 
carving out the white clouds 
like stanzas, unflawed. 
Now I begin to fall apart. 
 
No meaning was left in a drink. 
You could see only your image 
drowning in a scented charity. 
At last I am watching myself. 
 
Black paper. The ink was white. 
Speechless. No body language. 
Only you will discover the space 
between the unspoken words. 
 
Only buttons know the hollowness 
of a floating gun. Meeting you in 
an empty glass. Future will always 
talk of a setting sun.