Poetry

Sometimes, 
you let it go, 
the uneven fall of the tempest. 
 
Which body, 
would you turn on, 
now; after inhaling― 
 
the jessamines? An 
overpowering instinct, 
takes hold of you― 
 
to death wish. I want 
to make you sit 
before me and ask― 
 
why have you fallen 
in love with a 
fireball. A hidden mystery― 
 
unflolds now. We knew 
each other’s gift 
of summer, hurting without knowing.