The Falling Sky

By Laxmi Guria

When my fingers run through her

fragile yet strong flesh of green,

“Stubborn!”, unlike the glaciers,

she doesn’t seductively melt into every

shade of my dream.

The smile that blooms on her

earthy clock-face,

makes my even confessions taste sinful,

I wonder all day.

Softly in delight whenever she touches my chest,

“Why this heart suddenly run like a runner in a race?”

“A naughty girl!” as she takes advantage of

my vulnerability, and

teases the dark,

as if a private show;

while others sleep tired and soundly, although.

Little does she know,

someone owls through the night,

just to cheer up a fool king

while he’s all dim and loss in appetite.

She becomes his bedtime stories,

his dream-catcher,

his sweet nightingale,

singing a prayer of love;

‘My Beautiful Midnight', from afar.

By Laxmi Guria