Dying in the words

Some times I feel myself aging then dying among those words, in a sharp contrast to my youth.

I’ve looked back again on my old twits, found a piece of Munro’s words:

“We have been very happy.
I have often felt completely alone.
There is always in this life something to discover.
The days and the years have gone by in some sort of blur.
On the whole, I am satisfied.”

I read those words again, cannot believe they shadow the present perfectly, like the darkest magic in this world, telling truth of the future from the past.

Your pragnancy

Without complication,
it amused me when you say man cannot get pregnant while
you carry the baby of the sun.
You are glorying inside out, with a funny bread smell,
the golden and warm color beaming through
clouds between us, with a decent forgiving content of sensual therapy.
You cannot act like a mother because you never got one,
but I am so sure that if you did,
you would do.
That faked performing contains too much efforts, touching, kissing, stroking me with the wide angle lens,
filtering through your divine love for the whole.

Hide you under my dress

I’ll hide you under my dress, or you’ll pack me into your suitcase
We’ll go places together, travel so far away from home,
No fear, no worry, no sorrow, when
street lights on, the city has fallen asleep,
we’ll still be awake, whispering the softest words,
foreign to this world, foreign to our past, foreign to the hymns and prayers.
They won’t understand, when this journey ends,
we will be fine.
Let’s drink the goblet of ink, then put the period.