Poetry

Eaten up, by wanderlust― 
I started my sleepwalks 
cheating my dreams. 
 
The grace of knife was there... 
it did not open in daylight. 
Night was the brilliant host. 
 
When do I meet you― 
behind the moon― when stars 
were not twinkling out of fear? 
 
The rare gift of footnotes 
was sufficient to explain― 
the meaning of abstract pain. 
 
You will not treat the stings― 
very unkindly. They were 
meant to awaken you from letting it go.