If only I could put my palm into yours for one single sunset
when the autumn’s fingers smell corn silk,
and the eyelids of the sea cast spells on the cheeks of the stars.
Bathe with me at the end of the shore
where milk foam washes the feet of the children
and leaves traces of white shivers.
A pink conch tolls the waves announcing the homecoming of the chrysanthemums.
The pain of birth leaks prayers on your lips
like half naked Sundays leak monotony and coolness
on the yellow walls of the old city.
From the other side of your naked eyes,
I gather your tears in a wicker basket.
Laurel leaves hide under your pillow.
image: Velenty, Shutterstock, oil painting.
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela Marie Milton)