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between melodies and lyrics,
between beats and strings
touched by the fever of lovers passion
and sweetly bruised lips,
bright, burgundy music
stirred in white roses and in longing
moves like a sultry wind.
for every second of a burning day,
for every ray of moonlight
and every time a candle follows a dawn
and with every breath that I gasp, aching,
I miss the sound of your heart,
the trails of hands in my memories
and on my skin.

a humid fantasy, as if you are
next to me or at least your shadow
and inside a soft, artistic, sugary laughter
like a river under a melting snow,
like a gravitating summer
in the rhythm of fragile voices,
like a crystal picture frame
surrounding two happy faces,
when there is a promise
for an amaranthine night,
and there is a song of flowers
growing blind but beautiful,
and an absence of rhymes
in the distant whispers,
or maybe just blurs
out of a Persian poet’s mind.

but the truth is,
the stars once reflecting inevitably
in the green of your eyes,
the mystery constantly leading
the logic away from the silk bed,
the feeling of togetherness
almost reaching out an altar,
demand, daring, to bring back
the last kiss survived,
and there is a chaos of questions
trying to hurt the air,
and a pas de deux never meant to end,
and a luminous harmony in a forgotten adagio.



©2013, B. T., All rights reserved