Blue milk denting your sacrosanct bodies of glass.Gravity roping your hair.Tell me, how does it feel to flow incessantly.A surrender, thistle and ferns, all slobbery and cream coated. Fracking and fractured, bones and muscles cackling.

I want to know, of amalgamation, of infusion. Currents under growling lips and froth covered clouds seeping into bruised skin. They come and go. Imbue you with colors of their own. Breaths all muddled.
A tapestry that hangs, looms against the corroded back of time.Always curving.Bending to a nowhere.One that none see, but find themselves impregnated with.Like stones in their gooey stomach sacks.

Fields and water troughs, liquids and moisturized cans. Your nakedness is a march against the frailty of all bearings.Tell me how it is to be the observer at point C.
Shapeshifting mouths, cracking dancers. Limbs out of balance and bodies outnumbered by breaths, heaving, scratched and heaving.Does it drown you like it does some? The weight of lead as they scrub you with graphite bleed. Eloping thoughts, patched and cornered into blueberries and memories.

Tell me, is it too heavy? The insurmountable weight of all things breathing.

© Aakriti Kuntal

4 thoughts on “Moist Conversations with a concave lens of life

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