This morning is red cacti
growing over my pattern thighs
Sun discs and pitched 
tents of bent light

I wake up to the currents in the ceiling
My body rising like a thermometer
Your voice
slipping through my cracks
or am I conceiving the beautiful things ?

I lie flat,
an alga in thrown waters
waters shaping ferns
moments in a quilt
shivering in the winter sun
I cannot see
past the past
I cannot see

© Aakriti Kuntal

 

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